The Friendship Games
by everlarkdistrict12
Summary: What if Peeta and Katniss were best friends and had been for years? How will their relationship develop throughout the Hunger Games? Story better than summary:) Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games and probably never will.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N This is my first HG fic so this is all new to me :) Thanks for reading, Please, please, PLEASE REVIEW! _

Special thanks to **MoiraCPercy **for being an awesome beta!

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** Chapter 1**

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When I wake up, I notice the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim's warmth, but find only the rough canvas of the mattress. I assume that she had a bad dream and climbed in with Mother. Not surprising since today is the day of the reaping.

I swing my legs over the side and look over at the other "bed". There's barely enough light in the room to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, issnuggled up to my mother's body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn, but not so beaten-down. Prim's face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My mother used to be pretty too, or so they tell me.

Sitting at Prim's knees, guarding her, is the world's ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower.

He hates me, and I hate him, so there's no lost love between us.

Even though it was years ago, I think it must still remember how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing we needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. Prim knows I can't say no to her for long.

I stand up from the makeshift bed and slide into my hunting boots. Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull on trousers, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a cap, and grab my catch bag. Hanging on a hook next to the door is my father's old hunting jacket. I take that as well.

The part of District 12 that I live in, called the Seam, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Men and women alike, with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, their faces already black with coal dust. Most of them didn't even bother washing it off. They'd have to do it again later anyway. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses that are falling apart, are closed.

The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in if you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow. By the Meadow, I mean a flat plain that's brown and bare, with only a few weeds growing in it.

Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact enclosing all of District 12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory, it's supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods — packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears — that used to threaten our streets. But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it's usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it's silent as a stone. Near the bottom of the fence is an opening between two wires that have been stretched outwards- by me, no doubt.

As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log next to the lake. I replace it with my skinning knife that I brought with me. I'll be back there later.

Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and it carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it if they had real weapon to hunt with. The only other person I know who does it is Gale Hawthorne. He's my age, and like me we had to provide for our families at a young age when our fathers died. The forest is big. So we rarely come across each other. We used to be friends, but after our fathers died, instead of commiserating (it may be helpful to the reader to tell them why they didn't commiserate.) with each other, we fell apart. I don't miss his friendship. All I need is one friend, and I have one. My best friend: Peeta Mellark.

I see a rabbit peeking cautiously from his hole, revealing his head.

That's all the time I need.

_Thunk._

My arrow embeds itself deep into his eye, and he falls silently down. Dead.

I smile. Rabbits aren't an everyday catch in 12. They rarely come since nothing really grows because of all the coal dust that flies around.

I look down at my bag: 4 squirrels and 3 rabbits. Enough for today. Few people buy stuff on Reaping day anyway.

I pass a blackberry bush and pick a few to give them to Peeta. He'll appreciate them. Satisfied with my haul, I head towards the lake where my best friend awaits me.

Like Peeta, my mother and Prim look like they're from town with their blond curly hair and bright blue eyes. They look out of place in the Seam, whose people have black hair and gray eyes like me. But my mother used to live in town, when her family owned the apothecary shop. She met Father when he started selling herbs that he found in the forest, to her to brew into remedies. She must have loved him a lot to have moved from there to the Seam.

"Hey, Katniss," Peeta says, pulling me out of my reverie. He's sitting on the log with a paper bag next to him, full of bread probably.

"Hey, Peeta," I reply, smiling.

It's a tradition: every year on reaping day, we bring some food and eat right here by the lake. He brings the bread, and I bring wild fruit or, sometimes, some cheese from Prim's goat.

"Good catch?" he asks, as I stash my bow and arrow in the hollow part of the log.

"Four squirrels, three rabbits and some blackberries for our feast."

He nods in approval. "Look what I brought," he says, pulling out a cheese bun: my favorite, and it's still warm from the oven.

I grin and snatch it out of his hands while handing him the blackberries. He loves blackberries as much as I loved cheese buns. We're even, although neither of us really cares.

I'm just about to put a piece of bread in my mouth when Peeta stops me.

"We almost forgot. Happy Hunger Games!" he says in a good imitation of Effie Trinket, our district escort.

"Oh, and don't forget, 'May the Odds be _ever _in your favor.'" I reply, smiling. It's the only way we can bear it: to joke about it. And the Capitol accents are so funny.

After eating, we lay against the log as the sun rises.

"How's Prim?" he asks softly.

"She's terrified." I sigh. He puts his hand over mine and squeezes it. I smile at him gratefully. I usually don't like it when people touch me, but this time, I don't mind.

"How many times did you take out tesserae?" I ask him.

He sighs. "15, you?"

"15? Why so many?" I ask, surprised. At my question he tenses up slightly.

"Mom" is all he says. I understand. His mother made him take out that much. I hate her. She hits him and does all sorts of unmentionable things to him. But he still loves her.

"Speaking of which, I'd better get going. Sorry I forgot to bring other bread to trade." he says.

"That's fine. I'll stop by on my way home. But you can take your meat so that I don't have to drag it everywhere with me." I say.

"Fine" he concedes, and we both go our separate ways.

After trading both the fur and the meat from my catch, I head towards the bakery. I go to the back and knock on the kitchen door. Rye, Peeta's brother opens it. I like Rye. He's funny and easy to get along with. He's 19, so there's no chance of him getting reaped.

"Hey there, Catnip" he says, grinning.

He knows that I hate that name. When I first met him, he misunderstood my name for "Catnip" and he hasn't stopped calling me that. His other nickname for me is "Little Sis". Peeta has another older brother but he married somebody from the other side of town and that's where he lives now.

"Here, I have the bread ready for you." he says.

"Thanks" I say, taking it from him. As I'm about to turn, he grabs my arm and says seriously, "Good luck Little Sis." with a small smile, and hugs me.

"Thanks," I say, returning the hug. "Bye!" And I head towards home.

There I find my mother and sister ready to go.

Mother is wearing a dress from her town days. Prim is in my first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It's too big on her because she's so skinny, but my mother has made it stay with pins. Despite that, she's having trouble keeping the blouse tucked in at the back.

A tub of lukewarm water awaits me. After scrubbing off the dirt and sweat from hunting, I go to the bedroom that we all share and find, to my surprise, a soft blue dress that must have belonged to my mother when she lived in town.

"Do you want me to put your hair?" Mother asks, as she cautiously comes into the room.

"If you want." I shrug indifferently. She must take that as a yes because she approaches me and begins to do an elaborate braid. I've tried getting along better with her, for Prim's sake but then I'm reminded of how she abandoned us when Father died. And all my resolve crumbles.

"You look beautiful," Prim says upon seeing me, her eyes opening wide.

"Nothing like you." I say, hugging her. "Tuck in your tail, Little Duck." I add, noticing that her blouse had come out in the back.

Prim smiles and gives me a small "Quack."

"Quack yourself," I say with a light laugh. The kind only Prim can draw out of me. "Come on, let's eat," I say and plant a quick kiss on the top of her head.

Despite her smiles, I can tell that she's worried. More so about me then her. I wouldn't let her take out any tesserae so she only has one slip of paper. I, however, have twenty slips.

The odds are not in my favor.

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At one o'clock, we head for the square. Attendance is mandatory unless you're dying. Today officials will come around and check to see if that's the case. If not, you'll be imprisoned.

It's too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square — one of the few places in District 12 that could be pleasant. The square's surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there's good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.

People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well. Twelve through eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front and the youngest ones, like Prim, toward the back. Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands. But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn.

I look down at Prim and see that she's about to cry. Quickly pulling her out of the crowd, I take her head in my hands.

"Shh, Prim. It's okay." I say, desperately trying to calm her.

"What's that?" she asks, pointing towards where the Peacekeepers are drawing blood from your fingers and marking the bloody fingerprint on the page.

"It's okay, they just want your fingerprint."

"Does it hurt?" she asks, fearfully.

"Just a little bit, don't worry." I say honestly. "Now let's go, okay?"

"Okay," she nods and I lead her over to where the young girls are before joining the older girls. Once we're all settled, I search her out through the crowd, and when I'm satisfied that she's okay, I find Peeta. He's looking at me and we smile.

After watching the film, through which Peeta and I mouthed the words to each other, and the mayor has talked for seemingly hours about "repentance" and "terrible war", he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In seventy-four years, we've had exactly two. Only one is still alive. Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers onto the stage, and falls into the third chair. He's drunk. Very.

The crowd responds with its token applause, but he's confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

Then Effie, with her pink wig and appalling outfit, starts talking about what an honor it is to be there… etc.

And then it's time.

"As always, ladies first." she says beaming. It makes me want to puke, the way everyone from the Capitol takes such pleasure in seeing teenagers slaughtering each other to death.

She walks over to the girls bowl. The noise, although scarcely there before, is gone. You could hear a pin drop.

She dips her hand inside and after a few seconds, she pulls out a piece of paper. I tense up. One girl's life will be changed forever, if not ended, with that slip of paper.

She carefully opens it up. "Primrose Everdeen"

I freeze. And for a second, I just stand there, motionless; eyes staring in front of me, hands gripping my sides. This can't be happening; but it is. One slip in thousands. The odds were supposed to be in her favor.

It's her blouse, un-tucked in the back like a little duck tail that brings me back to reality.

"Prim!"

The strangled cry comes out of my throat, and my muscles begin to move again.

"Prim!" I don't need to shove through the crowd. The other kids make way immediately, allowing me a straight path to the stage. I reach her just as she is about to mount the steps. With one sweep of my arm, I push her behind me.

"I volunteer!" I scream desperately "I volunteer as tribute!"

There's some confusion on the stage. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer in decades. In District 12, where the word tribute is pretty much synonymous with the word corpse, volunteers are all but extinct.

Prim is yelling hysterically behind me. She's wrapped her arms around me like a vice. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"

"Prim, let go," I say harshly, because this is upsetting me and I can't cry. Not only will it make her even more upset, but when they televise the replay of the reapings tonight, everyone will make note of my tears, and I'll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction. "Let go!"

I can feel someone pulling her from my back. I turn and see Peeta has lifted her. He looks at me, pain in his eyes, then quickly turns around to bring Prim back to Mother.

"Well, bravo!" Effie gushes. "That's the spirit of the Games!" she's happy to finally have a district with a little action going on in it. "What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen," I say.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" trills Effie.

Silence. Dead silence.

Then one person, then two, then everybody in the square places their three middle fingers to their lips and holds them up to me.

It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.

Effie breaks the silence. "And now, for the boys." she says, with that awful smile on her face.

She reaches in the bowl and takes out a piece of paper.

"Peeta Mellark"

You know that feeling, when someone punches you once in the stomach. And your breath is knocked out. And then you are recovering, thinking that it's over, but then they punch you again just as hard and you wonder if you'll ever breathe again.

That's how I feel right now.

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_Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N Thanks for all the follows/favorites/reviews. They truly are the only reason I write... PLEASE don't forget to review, I'd love to know what you thought:) enjoy!_

Chapter 2

_It was during the worst time; my father had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier, in the coldest January anyone could remember. The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs._

_The district had given us a small amount of money as compensation for his death, enough to cover one month of grieving at which time my mother would be expected to get a job. But she didn't. She didn't do anything but sit, propped up in a chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Once in a while, she'd stir, get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only to then collapse back into stillness. Not even any amount of pleading from Prim seemed to affect her._

_I was terrified. I suppose now that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was that I had lost not only a father, but a mother as well. At eleven years old, with Prim just seven, I took over as head of the family. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market and cooked it as best I could and tried to keep Prim and myself looking presentable. Because if it had become known that my mother could no longer care for us, the district would have taken us away from her and placed us in the community home. I'd grown up seeing those home kids at school. The sadness, the marks of angry hands on their faces, the hopelessness that curled their shoulders forward. I could never let that happen to Prim. Sweet, tiny Prim who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason, who brushed and plaited my mother's hair before we left for school, who still polished my father's shaving mirror each night because he'd hated the layer of coal dust that settled on everything in the Seam. The community home would crush her like a bug. So I kept our predicament a secret._

_But_ _the money ran out and we were slowly starving to death. There's no other way to put it. I kept telling myself if I could only hold out until May, just May 8th, I would turn twelve and be able to sign up for the tesserae and get that precious grain and oil to feed us. Only there were still several weeks to go. We could well be dead by then._

_Starvation's not an uncommon fate in District 12. Who hasn't seen the victims? Older people who can't work. Children from a family with too many to feed. Those injured in the mines. Straggling through the streets. And one day, you come upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the Meadow, you hear the wails from a house, and the Peacekeepers are called in to retrieve the body. Starvation is never the cause of death officially. It's always the flu, or exposure, or pneumonia. But that fools no one._

_On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark, the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town, trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Prim's in the public market,_ _but there were no takers. Although I had been to the Hob on several occasions with my father, I was too frightened to venture into that rough, gritty place alone. The rain had soaked through my father's hunting jacket, leaving me chilled to the bone. For three days, we'd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I'd found in the back of a cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking so hard I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud puddle. I didn't pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my feet. Besides, no one wanted those clothes._

_I couldn't go home. Because at home was my mother with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hollow cheeks and cracked lips. I couldn't walk into that room with the smoky fire from the damp branches I had scavenged at the edge of the woods after the coal had run out, my bands empty of any hope._

_I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople. The merchants live above their businesses, so I was essentially in their backyards. I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted for the spring, a goat or two in a pen, one sodden dog tied to a post, hunched defeated in the muck._

_All forms of stealing are forbidden in District 12. Punishable by death. But it crossed my mind that there might be something in the trash bins, and those were fair game. Perhaps a bone at the butcher's or rotted vegetables at the grocer's, something no one but my family was desperate enough to eat. Unfortunately, the bins had just been emptied._

_When I passed the baker's, the smell of fresh bread was so overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back, and a golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door. I stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life. I lifted the lid to the baker's trash bin and found it spotlessly, heartlessly bare._

_Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked up to see the baker's wife, telling me to move on and did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was of having those brats from the Seam pawing through her trash. The words were ugly and I had no defense. As I carefully replaced the lid and backed away, I noticed him, a boy with blond hair peering out from behind his mother's back. I'd seen him at school. He was in my year, but I didn't know his name. He stuck with the town kids, so how would I? His mother went back into the bakery, grumbling, but he must have been watching me as I made my way behind the pen that held their pig and leaned against the far side of an old apple tree. The realization that I'd have nothing to take home had finally sunk in. My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. It was too much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community home, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain._

_There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the woman screaming again and the sound of a blow, and I vaguely wondered what was going on. Feet sloshed toward me through the mud and I thought, It's her. She's coming to drive me away with a stick. But it wasn't her. It was the boy. In his arms, he carried two large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire because the crusts were scorched black._

_His mother was yelling, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"_

_He began to tear off chunks from the burned parts and toss them into the trough, and the front bakery bell rung and the mother disappeared to help a customer._

_The boy never even glanced my way, but I was watching him. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with?_

_My parents never hit us. I couldn't even imagine it. The boy took one look back to the bakery as if checking that the coast was clear, then, his attention back on the pig, he threw a loaf of bread in my direction. The second quickly followed, and he sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door tightly behind him._

_I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to have them? He must have. Because there they were at my feet. Before anyone could witness what had happened I shoved the loaves up under my shirt, wrapped the hunting jacket tightly about me, and walked swiftly away. The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life._

_By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled somewhat, but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them on the table, Prim's hands reached to tear off a chunk, but I made her sit, forced my mother to join us at the table, and poured warm tea. I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread. We ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts._

_I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawled into bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep. It didn't occur to me until the next morning that the boy might have burned the bread on purpose. Might have dropped the loaves into the flames, knowing it meant being punished, and then delivered them to me. But I dismissed this. It must have been an accident. Why would he have done it? He didn't even know me. Still, just throwing me the bread was an enormous kindness that would have surely resulted in a beating if discovered. 1 couldn't explain his actions._

_We ate slices of bread for breakfast and headed to school. It was as if spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy clouds. At school, I passed the boy in the hall, his cheek had swelled up and his eye had blackened. He was with his friends and didn't acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Prim and started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at me from across the school yard. Our eyes met for only a second, then he turned his head away. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed, and that's when I saw it. The first dandelion of the year. A bell went off in my head. I thought of the hours spent in the woods with my father and I knew how we were going to survive. _

_**(The Hunger Games Chapter 2, Suzanne Collins)**_

_That day, we sat together at lunch. We started talking and at his request, I agreed to show him the woods. While we were there, I showed him the lake: my father's lake. I hadn't been there since he died, and overwhelmed, I broke down. Instead of just sitting there awkwardly and mumbling a "I'm sorry" like most people would, he gently took my hand and asked me if I wanted to talk about it. I did. I talked about my grief, I talked about how my mother neglected us, I talked baout everything; and he talked about his abusive mother, about his older brothers, and also about everyhting. Before I knew it, we were best friends. _

_*(*(*((*(*(*(*(_

My eyes never leave Peeta's as he slowly walks up on stage. I know that one of us will die. Both of us probably. But I can't face it just yet.

I bite my lip as to not cry; I don't want people to think I'm weak. Even though I'm going into an Arena where I'll be expected to kill teenagers, including my best friend nonetheless.

"Now shake hands!" Effie says, clapping her hands in excitement. We turn towards each other, and shake hands, never breaking eye contact. He doesn't let go of my hand until we're lead inside the Justice Building by the Peacekeepers.

Once inside, I'm conducted to a room and left alone. It's the richest place I've ever been in, with thick, rich carpets and a velvet couch. I know velvet because my mother has a dress with a collar made of it. Instead of sitting on the couch, I walk to the windowsill and grip it tightly with my fingers. I've barely registered the sounds of the door opening when a pair of thin arms fling themselves around me. Gently prying her hands apart, I crouch down until I'm level with her.

"Listen to me Prim," I say firmly, "Its going to be okay. You can sell cheese from your goat. Trade it with the bakery." Deep down I know that Mr Mellark and Rye will give her more bread than the cheese is worth, but I'm too desperate right now to care. "You are not allowed to take out any tesserae, do you understand?" she nods.

Once I'm done with instructions about fuel, trading, and staying in school, I turn to my mother and grab her arm, hard.

"You have to be here for her. You can't leave again. Do you understand?" My mother's eyes find the floor. "I know. I won't. I couldn't help what - "

"Well, you have to help it this time. You can't clock out and leave Prim on her own. There's no me now to keep you both alive. It doesn't matter what happens. Whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise me you'll fight through it!" my voice has risen now, almost to a shout.

She pulls her arm from my grasp, moved to anger herself now. "I was ill. I could have treated myself if I'd had the medicine I have now."

That part about her being ill might be true. I've seen her bring back people suffering from immobilizing sadness since. Perhaps it is a sickness, but it's one we can't afford.

"Then take it. And take care of her!" I say, then roughly pull her into a hug. "Don't cry. don't you dare cry." I say firmly.

"I'll be all right, Katniss," says Prim, after I've pulled back from the hug. "But you have to take care, too. You're so fast and brave. Maybe you can win."

I can't win. Prim must know that in her heart. The competition will be far beyond my abilities. There will be kids from wealthy families, who have trained for this their whole lives, kids who willingly go and volunteer to kill people. Kids who have 5 or more mentors since they always win.

"Maybe," I say, because I can hardly tell my mother to carry on if I've already given up myself. Besides, it isn't in my nature to go down without a fight, even when things seem insurmountable. "Then we'd be rich as Haymitch."

"I don't care if we're rich. I just want you to come home. You will try, won't you? Really, really try?" asks Prim.

"Really, really try. I swear it," I say. And I know, because of Prim, I'll have to.

And then the Peacekeeper is at the door, signaling our time is up, and we're all hugging one another so hard it hurts and all I'm saying is "I love you. I love you both." And they're saying it back and then the Peacekeeper orders them out and the door closes.

My next guest is unexpected. Madge walks straight to me. She is not weepy or evasive, instead there's an urgency about her tone that surprises me. "They let you wear one thing from your district in the arena. One thing to remind you of home. Will you wear this?" She holds out the circular gold pin that was on her dress earlier. I hadn't paid much attention to it before, but now I see it's a small bird in flight.

"Your pin?" I say. Wearing a token from my district is about the last thing on my mind.

"Here, I'll put it on your dress, all right?" Madge doesn't wait for an answer, she just leans in and fixes the bird to my dress. "Promise you'll wear it into the arena, Katniss?" she asks. "Promise?"

"Yes," I say and she gives me a kiss on the cheek. Then she's gone and I'm left thinking that maybe Madge really has been my friend all along.

Then Mr Mellark and Rye come in. Without a word, Rye envelops me in a bone crushing hug. "You know we'll take care of you family, right?"

"I know," I say, "and thank you." I add with a small smile.

"I love you little Sis." he says, also slightly smiling now.

"Love you too.." I say haltingly. It's weird for me to say anything like that to anybody but Prim, but it's probably the last time I'll see him so I don't care. After we've pulled away, Mr Mellark hugs me, gently. "Be safe Katniss." is all he says, because, honestly, what else can he say? I nod, and find to my surprise, tears forming at my eyes. They've always been like family to me.

Before we can say anything else, the peacekeepers come in and pull them out.

I don't think anybody else is going to come, but to my surprise, Gale, of all people, comes.

He gets straight to the point. "You can win, you know. Just find a bow and you'll be fine. You've killed for survival before." he says intensely.

"But not people, just animals." I protest.

He looks at me. "People aren't that different, Katniss." I merely nod, but I know that I can't win. Because I can't live with Peeta dead. I just can't.

"I'll see you soon, okay?" he says. I nod dumbly once more as the peacekeepers drag him out.

He's the last person to come.

_$&$&$8_

_Thanks for reading! Don't forget to leave your thoughts in that little box down there...:)_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N Thanks for your support! Please review! Its the only reason I write:) Enjoy!_

**Chapter 3**

The tribute train is fancier than even the room in the Justice Building. We are each given our own chambers that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water. We don't have hot water at home, unless we boil it.

There are drawers filled with fine clothes, and Effie Trinket tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I want, everything is at my disposal. Just be ready for supper in an hour. I peel off my mother's blue dress and take a hot shower. I've never had a shower before. It's like being in a summer rain, only warmer. I dress in a dark green shirt and pants.

At the last minute, I remember Madge's little gold pin. For the first time, I get a good look at it. It's as if someone fashioned a small golden bird and then attached a ring around it. The bird is connected to the ring only by its wing tips. I suddenly recognize it. A mocking jay.

They're funny birds and something of a slap in the face to the Capitol. During the rebellion, the Capitol bred a series of genetically altered animals as weapons. The common term for them was muttations, or sometimes mutts for short. One was a special bird called a jabber jay that had the ability to memorize and repeat whole human conversations. They were homing birds, exclusively male, that were released into regions where the Capitol's enemies were known to be hiding. After the birds gathered words, they'd fly back to centers to be recorded. It took people awhile to realize what was going on in the districts, how private conversations were being transmitted. Then, of course, the rebels fed the Capitol endless lies, and the joke was on it. So the centers were shut down and the birds were abandoned to die off in the wild.

Only they didn't die off. Instead, the jabber jays mated with female mockingbirds creating a whole new species that could replicate both bird whistles and human melodies. They had lost the ability to enunciate words but could still mimic a range of human vocal sounds, from a child's high-pitched warble to a man's deep tones. And they could re-create songs. Not just a few notes, but whole songs with multiple verses, if you had the patience to sing them and if they liked your voice.

My father was particularly fond of mocking jays. When we went hunting, he would whistle or sing complicated songs to them and, after a polite pause, they'd always sing back. Not everyone is treated with such respect. But whenever my father sang, all the birds in the area would fall silent and listen. His voice was that beautiful, high and clear and so filled with life it made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. I could never bring myself to continue the practice after he was gone. Still, there's something comforting about the little bird. It's like having a piece of my father with me, protecting me. I fasten the pin onto my shirt, and with the dark green fabric as a background, I can almost imagine the mockingjay flying through the trees.

My reverie is broken by a knock on the door.

"Katniss? Time for dinner!"

It's Effie.

"Coming." is all I say, pinning the gold pin to my shirt.

Peeta is already at the table when I arrive. He quickly glances at me and then returns to his meal.

"Where's Haymitch?" asks Effie Trinket brightly.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," says Peeta.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Effie. I can tell she's relieved by his absence.

The supper comes in a few courses. A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes. For dessert there is cheese, fruit, and a chocolate cake. Throughout the meal, Effie keeps reminding us to save space because there's even more to come. But I ignore her and eat as much as I can, since I've never had food like this. Its so good and so much, and it won't hurt to put on a few pounds between now and the games.

"At least, you two have decent manners," Effie remarks as we finishing the main course. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It upset both me and my digestion."

Last year there were two kids from the Seam who'd never once, had enough to eat. So the time that they did have food, table manners were probably the last thing on their minds. Peeta's a merchant; a baker's son, so of course he has good manners.

My mother taught Prim and I to eat properly, so yes, I can handle a fork and knife. But I hate Effie's thoughtless comment so much I make a point of eating the rest of my meal with my fingers. Then I wipe my hands on the tablecloth. This makes her purse her lips tightly together, but I pretend not to notice. But out of the corner of my eye, I see Peeta smiling at my actions, which also causes me to smile.

By the end of the meal, Peeta and I both look a little green. Neither of our stomachs is used to such rich fare. But if I can hold down Greasy Sae's concoction of mice meat, pig entrails, and tree bark (one of her winter specialties), I'm determined to hang on to this.

We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem. They try to stagger them throughout the day so a person could conceivably watch the whole thing live, but only people in the Capitol could really do that, since none of them have to attend reapings themselves.

One by one, we see the other reapings, the names called, (the volunteers stepping forward or, more often, not.) We examine the faces of the kids who will be our competition. A few stand out in my mind. A monstrous boy who lunges forward to volunteer from District 2. A fox-faced girl with shiny red hair from District 5, A crippled boy from District 10, and worst of all, a twelve-year-old girl from District 11. She has dark brown skin and eyes, but other than that, she's a lot like Prim in size both and demeanor. Only when she mounts the stage and they ask for volunteers, all you can hear is the wind whistling through the decrepit buildings around her. There's no one willing to take her place. Peeta reaches over and squeezes my hand; he understands.

Last of all, they show District 12. Prim being called, me running forward to volunteer. You can't miss the desperation in my voice as I shove Prim behind me, as if I'm afraid no one will hear and they'll take Prim away. But, of course, they do hear. I see Peeta pulling her off me and watch myself mount the stage. The commentators are not quite sure what to say about the crowd's refusal to applaud. The silent salute. One says that District 12 has always been a bit backward but that local customs can be charming. As if on cue, Haymitch falls off the stage, and they groan comically. Peeta's name is drawn, and you can see a range of emotions on both of our faces. Shock. Disbelief. Horror.

On the other side of the room, Effie is mad about the way Haymitch messed up her wig.

"Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation and a lot about televised behavior." she says indignantly.

Peeta laughs sardonically. "He was drunk," he says. "He's drunk every year."

"Every day," I can't help adding. Effie makes it sound like Haymitch just has somewhat rough manners that can be corrected with a few tips from her. Fat chance of that happening.

"Yes," hisses Effie. "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

Just then, Haymitch staggers into the compartment. "I miss supper?" he asks in a slurred voice, then he vomits all over the expensive carpet and slips in the mess.

"Laugh away!" says Effie Trinket and hops in her pointy shoes around the pool of vomit and flees from the room.

For a few moments, Peeta and I take in the scene of our mentor trying to rise out of the slippery vile stuff from his stomach. The reek of vomit and raw spirits almost brings my dinner up. We exchange a glance. This is the man that is supposed to get us out of the arena.

He obviosuly isn't much, but Effie Trinket is right about one thing, once we're in the arena he's all we've got. As if by some unspoken agreement, Peeta and I each take one of Haymitch's arms and help him to his feet.

"I tripped?" Haymitch asks. "Smells bad." He wipes his hand on his nose, smearing his face with vomit.

"Let's get you back to your room," says Peeta. "Clean you up a bit."

We half-lead half-carry Haymitch back to his compartment. Since we can't exactly set him down on the embroidered bedspread, we haul him into the bathtub and turn the shower on him. He hardly notices.

"It's okay," Peeta says to me. "I'll take it from here." I can't help feeling a little grateful since the last thing I want to do is strip down Haymitch, wash the vomit out of his chest hair, and tuck him into bed. Possibly Peeta is trying to make a good impression on him, to be his favorite once the Games begin. But judging by the state he's in, Haymitch will have no memory of this tomorrow.

"All right," I say. "I can send one of the Capitol people to help you." There's any number on the train.

Cooking lor us. Waiting on us. Guarding us. Taking care of us is their job.

"No. I don't want them," says Peeta.

"Okay." I say, and walk away.

* * *

Once I'm in my room, I stand staring out the train window, wishing I could open it again, but unsure of what would happen at such high speed. In the distance, I see the lights of another district. 7? 10? Who knows. I think about the people in their houses, settling in for bed.

I imagine my home, with the shutters drawn tight. What are my mother and Prim doing now? Were they able to eat supper? The fish stew and the strawberries? Or did it lay untouched on their plates? Did they watch the recap of the day's events on the battered old TV that sits on the table against the wall? Surely, there were more tears. Is my mother holding up, being strong for Prim? Or has she already started to slip away, leaving the weight of the world on my sister's fragile shoulders?

Prim will undoubtedly sleep with my mother tonight. The thought of that dirty old Buttercup posting himself on the bed to watch over Prim comforts me. If she cries, he will nose his way into her arms and curl up there until she calms down and falls asleep. I'm so glad I didn't drown him.

Imagining my home makes me ache with loneliness. This day has been endless. Could Gale and I have been eating blackberries only this morning? It seems like a lifetime ago. Like a long dream that deteriorated into a nightmare. Maybe, if I go to sleep, I will wake up back in District 12, where I belong.

I'm just about to get changed when a knock on the door startles me.

"Who is it?" I ask.

"Me, Peeta" he says.

"Come in." I tell him, which he does. Once he's inside, he looks around the room with interest.

"Not too shabby, aye?" he says with a small chuckle.

I merely shrug; I don't really feel like joking right now. He smiles at my indifference, and sits down on the couch, motioning for me to do the same.

He doesn't speak, just studies me carefully. I swallow hard; thinking of how both of us will probably die.

"You can cry, you know. It's just me." Peeta says softly. I shake my head but feel tears forming at my eyes. I usually never cry.

"You know what my mom said, when she came to see me?" he asks, breaking the silence once more.

"What?" I ask curiously. I'm honestly surprised she even came to say goodbye.

"She said that maybe District 12 would have a winner this year. And she meant you." he says, with a small, almost rueful smile at the end.

I'm horrified. How can a woman say that to her own son? I know Peeta said that to encourage me rather than for me to pity him for having such a mother, but still.

"How do you know she didn't mean you? You could win. You're really strong, I GE seen you lift those bags of flour like they're nothing." I say.

He laughs bitterly, "Oh yeah, I'm sure I'll win by throwing flour around. If anyone can win it's you." he says.

"Peeta, my point is that you're so strong you can beat anyone in hand to hand combat. If I'm stuck with that I have no chance!" I'm almost yelling now.

"And you'll just sit in a tree, picking people off one by one with your bow."

"They might not even have a bow and arrow!" we're both yelling now, and I can hear tears in both of our voices.

Peeta's about to respond when a loud knock on the door interrupts him.

"Katniss?"

Its Effie.

"Katniss, are you alright?" she asks.

"Yes, I'm fine" I say tersely. Somehow, she takes that as an invitation toe noted because I hear the door opening and turn around to see her in a bright pink bathrobe.

She starts a little bit when she sees Peeta next to me. Putting two and two together, her mouth forms a small "o" and she says, "I'm so sorry to interrupt." she doesn't soundsorry at all.

"It's fine, Effie. I'm just leaving." Peeta says, swiftly getting up and after wishing us both a goodnight, he hastily retreats.

Still angry from the argument, I turn my back on Effie and look out the window. For the first time, she gets the hint.

When she's gone, I finally give in and cry, hating my life. But after a few minutes I stop. I need to be strong. For Prim. And that means I need to get Peeta out of the arena. I don't want to win. I wouldn't be able to live, knowing that 23 teenagers had died because of me. And I wouldn't be able to live without Peeta.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N Thanks for all of your encouraging follows/favorites/reviews! I know I say this every time but it's the only reason I write:)_

**Chapter 4**

Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the knocking wakes me. I hear Effie's voice, calling me. "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!" The way she says it, with her shrill, perky little voice catches my attention. I try and imagine, for a second, what it must be like inside that woman's head. What thoughts fill her waking hours? What dreams come to her at night? I have no clue.

I put the green outfit back on since it's not really dirty, just slightly crumpled from spending the night on the floor. My fingers trace the circle around the little gold mocking jay and I think of the woods, and my father; and I think of my mother and Prim waking up, having to get on with things.

I slept in the elaborate braided hair my mother did for the reaping, so I let it out, and do a simple braid to the side.

We can't be far from the Capitol now. And I know that once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate my look for the opening ceremonies tonight anyway. I just hope I get one who doesn't think nudity is the newest fashion.

As I enter the dining car, Effie Trinket brushes by me with a cup of black coffee. She's muttering something under her breath. Haymitch, his face puffy and red from the previous day's indulgences, is chuckling. Peeta holds a roll and looks rather embarrassed.

"Sit down! Sit down!" Haymitch says, waving me over. The moment I slide into my chair I'm served an enormous platter of food: eggs, ham, and piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it cold. The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my family going for a week; just the thought of that makes me shiver. There's a glass of orange juice - at least, I think it's orange juice. I've only tasted an orange once, at New Year's when my father bought one for us as a special treat. There's also a cup of coffee. My mother loves coffee, which we could almost never afford, but it only tastes bitter and thin to me. Next to it is a rich brown cup of something that I've never seen.

"They call it hot chocolate," says Peeta smiling softly at me. "It's good."

I take a sip of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and a shiver runs through me. Even though the rest of the meal beckons, I ignore it until I've drained my cup. Then I stuff down every mouthful I can hold, which is a substantial amount, being careful to not overdo it on the richest stuff. One time, my mother told me that I always eat like I'll never see food again. And I said, "I won't unless I bring it home." As you can imagine, that shut her up.

When I ask Peeta to pass me the rolls, he does, looking at me with his blue eyes, as if asking forgiveness for out fight yesterday. I smile, smile telling him it's okay, although it was my fault as much as his.

When my stomach feels like it's about to split open, I lean back and take in my breakfast companions. Peeta is still eating, breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in the hot chocolate. Haymitch hasn't paid much attention to his platter, but he's knocking back a glass of red juice that he keeps thinning with a clear liquid from a bottle that he takes form his coat pocket. Judging by the fumes, it's some kind of spirit. I don't know Haymitch, but I've seen him often enough in the Hob, tossing handfuls of money on the counter of the woman who sells white liquor. He'll be incoherent by the time we reach the Capitol.

I realize I actually hate Haymitch. No wonder the District 12 tributes never stand a chance. It isn't just that we've been underfed and lack training. Some of our tributes have still been strong enough to make a go of it; but we rarely get sponsors and he's a big part of the reason why. The rich people who back tributes — either because they're betting on them or simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner — expect someone classier than Haymitch to deal with.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," I say coldly to Haymitch.

"Here's some advice. Stay alive," says Haymitch, and then bursts out laughing. I exchange a look with Peeta. I'm surprised to see the hardness in his eyes. He's usually the calm one.

"That's very funny," says Peeta. Suddenly he lashes out at the glass in Haymitch's hand. It shatters on the floor, sending the blood-red liquid running toward the back of the train. "only not to us." He finishes.

Haymitch considers this a moment, then is about to punch Peeta who, sensing the older man's intent, grabs Haymitch's hand before he can punch him. Looking mildly surprised, the mentor turns back to reach for the spirits, but I drive my knife into the table between his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers.

"Well, what's this?" says Haymitch. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?" he turns to me. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"

The bow and arrow is my weapon. But I've spent a fair amount of time throwing knives as well. Sometimes, if I've wounded an animal with an arrow, it's better to get a knife into it, too, before I approach it. That's when I realize that if I want Haymitch's attention, this is my time to make an impression. I yank the knife out of the table, get a grip on the blade, and then throw it into the wall across the room. I was really just hoping to get a good solid stick, but it lodges in the seam between two panels, making me look a lot better than I am.

"Stand over here. Both of you," says Haymitch, nodding to the middle of the room. We obey and he circles us, prodding us like animals at times, checking our muscles, examining our faces. "Well, you're not completely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."

Peeta and I don't question this. The Hunger Games aren't a beauty contest, but the best-looking tributes always seem to get more sponsors.

"All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you," says Haymitch. "But you have to do exactly what I say."

It's not much of a deal but still a giant step forward from ten minutes ago when we had no guide at all.

"Fine," says Peeta.

"So help us," I say. "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone —"

"One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist," says Haymitch.

"But —" I protest.

"No buts. Don't resist," says Haymitch. He takes the bottle of spirits from the table and leaves the car. As the door swings shut behind him, the car goes dark. There are still a few lights inside, but outside it's as if night has fallen again. I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into the Capitol. The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts. It is almost impossible to enter from the east except through the tunnels. This geographical advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war that led to my being a tribute today. Since the rebels had to scale the mountains, they were easy targets for the Capitol's air forces.

Peeta and I stand there as the train speeds along. The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons of rock separating me from the sky, and my chest tightens. I hate being encased in stone this way. It reminds me of the mines and my father, trapped, unable to reach sunlight, buried forever in the darkness.

"I never knew you were that good with a knife." He says.

"Neither did I." I say with a small smirk.

The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light floods the compartment. Both Peeta and I run to the window to see what we've only seen on television, the Capitol, the ruling city of Panem.

The cameras certainly haven't lied about its grandeur. If anything, they have not quite captured the magnificence of the glistening buildings in a rainbow of hues that tower into the air, the shiny cars that roll down the wide paved streets, the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair and painted faces. The people who have always had enough food to eat. The people who _enjoy _watching teenagers kill each other.

All the colors seem artificial, the pinks too deep, the greens too bright, the yellows painful to the eyes, like the flat round disks of hard candy we can never afford to buy at the tiny sweet shop in District 12.

The people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize a tribute train rolling into the city. I step away from the window, sickened by their excitement, knowing they can't wait to watch us die. But Peeta holds his ground, actually waving and smiling at the gawking crowd. He only stops when the train pulls into the station, blocking us from their view.

He sees me staring at him and shrugs. "Who knows?" he says. "One of them may be rich."

Effie smiles at him in approval before dragging us out, flanked by Peacekeepers.

* * *

I grit my teeth as Venia, a woman with aqua hair and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, yanks a strip of Fabric from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it. "Sorry!" she says in her silly Capitol accent. "You're just _so_ hairy!"

Why do these people speak in such a high pitch? Why do their jaws barely open when they talk? Why do the ends of their sentences go up as if they're asking a question? Odd vowels, clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter _s_. No wonder it's impossible not to mimic them.

Venia makes what's supposed to be a sympathetic face. "Good news, though. This is the last one. Ready?" I grip the edges of the table I'm seated on and nod. The final swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk.

I've been in the Remake Center for more than three hours and I still haven't met my stylist. Apparently he has no interest in seeing me until Venia and the other members of my prep team have addressed some obvious problems. This has included scrubbing down my body with a gritty loam that has removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin, turning my nails into uniform shapes, and primarily, ridding my body of hair. My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows have been stripped of the Muff, leaving me like a plucked bird, ready for roasting. I don't like it. My skin feels sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable. But I have kept my side of the bargain with Haymitch, and no objection has crossed my lips.

"You're doing very well," says a guy named Flavius. He gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh coat of purple lipstick to his mouth. "If there's one thing we can't stand, it's a whiner. Grease her down!"

Venia and Octavia, a plump woman whose entire body has been dyed a pale shade of pea green, rub me down with a lotion that first stings but then soothes my raw skin. Then they pull me from the table, removing the thin robe I've been allowed to wear off and on. I stand there, completely naked, as the three circle me, wielding tweezers to remove any last bits of hair. I know I should be embarrassed, but they're so unlike people that I'm no more self-conscious than if a trio of oddly colored birds were pecking around my feet.

The three step back and admire their work. "Excellent! You almost look like a human being now!" says Flavius, and they all laugh as if it's the funniest thing in the world..

I force my lips up into a smile, pretending to be grateful. "Thank you," I say in a faux-sweet voice. "We don't have much opportunity and cause to look nice in District Twelve."

That wins them over completely. "Of course, you don't, you poor dear!" Octavia says, clasping her hands together in distress for me.

"But don't worry," says Venia. "By the time Cinna is through with you, you'll be absolutely gorgeous!"

"We promise! You know, now that we've gotten rid of all the hair and filth, you're not horrible at all!" says Flavius encouragingly. "Let's call Cinna!"

They dart out of the room. It's hard to hate my prep team. They're such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I know they're sincerely trying to help me.

I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse to retrieve my robe. But this Cinna, my stylist, will surely make me remove it at once. Instead my hands go to my hairdo, the one area of my body my prep team had been told to leave alone. My fingers stroke the silky braids my mother so carefully arranged. My mother. I left her blue dress and shoes on the floor of my train car, never thinking about retrieving them, of trying to hold on to a piece of her, of home. Now I wish I had.

The door opens and a young man who must be Cinna enters. I'm taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of the stylists they interview on television are so dyed, stenciled, and surgically altered they're grotesque. But Cinna's close-cropped hair appears to be its natural shade of brown. He's in a simple black shirt and pants. The only concession to self-alteration seems to be metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied with a light hand. It brings out the flecks of gold in his green eyes. And, despite my disgust with the Capitol and their hideous fashions, I can't help thinking how attractive it looks.

"Hello, Katniss. I'm Cinna, your stylist," he says in a quiet voice somewhat lacking in the Capitol's affectations.

"Hello," I venture cautiously.

"Just give me a moment, all right?" he asks. He walks around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in every inch of it with his eyes. I resist the impulse to cross my arms over my chest. "Who did your hair? At the reaping I mean."

"My mother," I say.

"It's beautiful. Classic really. And in almost perfect balance with your profile. She has very clever fingers," he says.

I had expected someone flamboyant, someone older trying desperately to look young, someone who viewed me as a piece of meat to be prepared for a platter. Cinna has met none of these expectations.

"You're new, aren't you? I don't think I've seen you before," I say. Most of the stylists are familiar, constants in the ever-changing pool of tributes. Some have been around my whole life.

"Yes, this is my first year in the Games," says Cinna.

"So they gave you District Twelve," I say with a slight smile. Newcomers are generally stuck with us, the least desirable district.

"I asked for District Twelve," he says without further explanation. "Why don't you put on your robe and we'll have a chat."

Pulling on my robe, I follow him through a door into a sitting room. Two red couches face off over a low table. Three walls are blank, the fourth is entirely glass, providing a window to the city. I can see by the light that it must be around noon, although the sunny sky has turned overcast. Cinna invites me to sit on one of the couches and takes his place across from me. He presses a button on the side of the table. The top splits and from below rises a second tabletop that holds our lunch. Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy sauce laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a pudding the color of honey.

I try to imagine assembling this meal myself back home. Chickens are too expensive, but I could make do with a wild turkey. I'd need to shoot a second turkey to trade for an orange. Goat's milk would have to substitute for cream. We can grow peas in the garden. I'd have to get wild onions from the woods. I don't recognize the grain, our own tessera ration cooks down to an unattractive brown mush. Fancy rolls would mean another trade with the baker, perhaps for two or three squirrels. As for the pudding, I can't even guess what's in it. Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then it would be a poor substitutionfor the Capitol version.

What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button? How would I spend the hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it were so easy to come by? What do they do all day, these people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to roll in and die for their entertainment?

I look up and find Cinna's eyes trained on mine. "How despicable we must seem to you," he says.

Has he seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts? He's right, though. The whole rotten lot of them is despicable.

"No matter," says Cinna. "So, Katniss, about your costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Peeta. And our current thought is to dress you in complementary costumes," says Cinna. "As you know, it's customary to reflect the flavor of the district."

For the opening ceremonies, you're supposed to wear something that suggests your district's principal industry. District 11, agriculture. District 4, fishing. District 3, factories. This means that coming from District 12, Peeta and I will be in some kind of coal miner's getup. Since the baggy miner's jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps. One year, our tributes were stark naked and covered in black powder to represent coal dust. It's always dreadful and does nothing to win favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst.

"So, I'll be in a coal miner outfit?" I ask, hoping it won't be indecent.

"Not exactly. You see, Portia and I think that coal miner thing's very overdone. No one will remember you in that. And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes unforgettable," says Cinna.

I'll be naked for sure, I think.

"So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we're going to focus on the coal," says Cinna. Naked and covered in black dust, I think. "And what do we do with coal? We burn it," says Cinna.

"You're not afraid of fire, are you, Katniss?" He sees my expression and grins.

A few hours later, I am dressed in what will either be the most sensational or the deadliest costume in the opening ceremonies. I'm in a simple black unitard that covers me from ankle to neck. Shiny leather boots lace up to my knees. But it's the fluttering cape made of streams of orange, yellow, and red and the matching headpiece that define this costume. Cinna plans to light them on fire just before our chariot rolls into the streets.

"It's not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Portia and I came up with. You'll be perfectly safe," he says. But I'm not convinced I won't be perfectly barbecued by the time we reach the city's center.

My face is relatively clear of makeup, just a bit of highlighting here and there. My hair has been brushed out and then braided down my back in my usual style. "I want the audience to recognize you when you're in the arena," says Cinna dreamily. "Katniss, the girl who was on fire."

It crosses my mind that Cinna's calm and normal demeanor masks a complete madman.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Please review!_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N I hope you enjoy, thanks for your support! PLEASE REVIEWWWWW_

**_CHAPTER 4_**

I'm relieved when Peeta shows up, dressed in an identical costume. He'll know about fire, since he's baker's son and all. His stylist, Portia, and her team are accompanying him, and everyone is absolutely giddy with excitement over what a splash we're going to make—except maybe Cinna, who just seems a little weary as he accepts congratulations.

We're taken down to the lowest level of the 'Remake Center', which is basically a huge stable. The opening ceremony is about to start. Pairs of tributes are being loaded into the chariots pulled by four horses. Ours are pitch black.

The animals are so well trained, no one even needs to guide their reins. Cinna and Portia lead us into the chariot and carefully arrange our body positions, the drape of our capes, before moving off to consult with each other.

"What do you think?" I whisper to Peeta. "About the fire?"

"I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," he says through gritted teeth.

"Okay," I say.

Maybe, if we can get them off soon enough, we'll avoid the worst burns. It might be bad though. They'll throw us into the arena no matter what condition we're in.

"I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle." I continue.

"Where is he anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" Peeta says.

"With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame," I say drily.

And suddenly we're both laughing. I guess we're both so nervous about being turned into human torches, that we're not acting sensibly.

The opening music begins. It's easy to hear, blasted around the Capitol. Massive doors slide open revealing the crowd-lined streets. The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Center, which will be our home (or prison) until the Games begin.

The District 1 tributes ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted silver, in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels. District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the crowd. They're always one of the favorites.

District 2 gets into position to follow them. In no time at all, we are approaching the door and I can see that between the overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray. The tributes from District 11 are just rolling out when Cinna appears with a lighted torch.

"Here we go then," he says, and before we can react he sets our capes on fire. I gasp, waiting for the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Cinna climbs up before us and ignites our headdresses. He lets out a sign of relief. "It works."

Then he gently tucks a hand under my chin. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"

Cinna jumps off the chariot and has one last idea. He shouts something up at us, but the music drowns him out. He shouts again and gestures.

"What's he saying?" I ask Peeta. For the first time, I look at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is dazzling. And I must be, too.

"I think he said for us to hold hands," says Peeta. He grabs my right hand in his left, and we look to Cinna for confirmation. He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that's the last thing I see before we enter the city.

The crowd's initial alarm at our appearance quickly changes to cheers and shouts of "District Twelve!"

Every head turns our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us. At first, I'm frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am shocked by how stunning we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces. We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. Cinna was right about the minimal makeup, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable.

_Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!_

I hear Cinna's voice in my head. I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with my free hand. I'm glad now I have Peeta to clutch for balance, he is always so steady, as solid as a rock.

As I gain confidence, I actually blow a few kisses to the crowd. The people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with flowers, shouting our names, our first names, which they have actually bothered to find on the program.

The loud music, the cheers, and their admiration work their way into my blood, and I can't suppress my excitement. Cinna has given me a great advantage. No one will forget me. Not my look, not my name. Katniss. The girl who was on fire.

For the first time, I feel a flicker of hope rising up in me. Surely, there must be one sponsor willing to take me on! And with a little extra help, some food, the right weapon, why should I count myself out of the Games?

Someone throws me a red rose. I catch it, give it a delicate sniff, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch my kiss, as if it were a real and tangible thing.

"Katniss! Katniss!" I can hear my name being called from all sides. Everyone wants my kisses.

It's not until we enter the City Circle that I realize I must have completely stopped the circulation in Peeta's hand. That's how tightly I've been holding it. I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. "No, don't let go of me," he says. The firelight flickers off his blue eyes. "Please. I might fall out of this thing." he adds with a small smile.

"Okay," I say. So I keep holding on, but I can't help feeling strange about the way Cinna has linked us together. It's as if he knew we were best friends before even being reaped.

The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Snow's mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish.

The president, a pudgy man of medium height, with paper-white hair, gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. It is traditional to cut away to the faces of the tributes during the speech. But I can see on the screen that we are getting much more than our share of airtime.

The darker it becomes, the more difficult it is to take your eyes off our flickering. When the national anthem plays, they do make an effort to do a quick cut around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds on the District 12 chariot as it parades around the circle one final time and disappears into the Training Center. Probably the first time that's happened.

The doors have only just shut behind us when we're engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible as they babble out praise. As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which confirms what I've suspecte; we've completely outshone them all. Then Cinna and Portia are there, helping us down from the chariot, carefully removing our flaming capes and headdresses. Portia extinguishes them with some kind of spray from a canister.

I realize I'm still glued to Peeta and force my stiff fingers to open. We both massage our hands.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," says Peeta.

"It didn't show," I tell him. "I'm sure no one noticed."

"I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often," he says. "They suit you." And then he gives me such a sweet smile that unexpected warmth rushes through me.

The Training Center has a tower designed exclusively for the tributes and their teams. This will be our home until the actual Games begin. Each district has an entire floor. You simply step onto an elevator and press the number of your district. Not too hard to remember.

I've ridden the elevator a couple of times, in the Justice Building back in District 12. Once to receive the medal for my father's death and then yesterday to say my final goodbyes to my friends and family. But there it's a dark and creaky thing that moves like a snail and smells like sour milk. The walls of this elevator are made of crystal so that you can watch the people on the ground floor shrink to ants as you shoot up into the air. It's exhilarating and I'm tempted to ask Effie Trinket if we can ride it again, but somehow that seems childish.

Apparently, Effie Trinket's duties do not conclude at the station. She and Haymitch will be overseeing us right into the arena. In a way, that's a plus because at least she can be counted on to corral us around to places on time whereas with Haymitch, we can't rely on him. We haven't even seen him since he agreed to help us on the train. He's probably passed out somewhere.

Effie Trinket, on the other hand, seems to be flying high. We're the first team she's ever chaperoned that made a splash at the opening ceremonies. She's complementing us not just our costumes but how we behaved. Also, it doesnt hurt that Effie knows everyone who's important in the Capitol and has been talking us up all day, trying to win us sponsors.

"I've been quite mysterious, though," she says, her eyes squint half shut. "Because, of course, Haymitch hasn't bothered to tell me your strategies. But I've done my best with what I had to work with. How Katniss sacrificed herself for her sister. How you've both successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district."

Barbarism? That's ironic coming from a woman helping to prepare us for slaughter. And what's she basing our success on? Our table manners?

"Everyone has their reservations, naturally. You being from the coal district. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, 'Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!'" Effie beams at us so brilliantly that we have no choice but to respond enthusiastically to her cleverness even though it's completely wrong.

Coal doesn't turn to pearls. They grow in shellfish. Possibly she meant coal turns to diamonds, but that's untrue, too. I've heard they have some sort of machine in District 1 that can turn graphite into diamonds. But we don't mine graphite in District 12. That was part of District 13's job until they were destroyed.

I wonder if the people she's been plugging us to all day either know or care. I'm guessing they don't.

"Unfortunately, I can't seal the sponsor deals for you. Only Haymitch can do that," Effie says grimly. "But don't worry, I'll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary."

Although lacking in many departments, Effie Trinket has a certain determination I have to admire.

* * *

My quarters are bigger than our entire house back home. They are plush, like the train car, but also have so many automatic gadgets that I'm sure I won't have time to press all the buttons. The shower alone has a panel with more than a hundred options you can choose regulating water temperature, pressure, soaps, shampoos, scents, oils, and massaging sponges. When you step out on a mat, heaters come on that blow-dry your body. Instead of struggling with the knots in my wet hair, I merely place my hand on a box that sends a current through my scalp, untangling, parting, and drying my hair almost instantly. It floats down around my shoulders in a glossy curtain.

I program the closet for an outfit to my taste. The windows zoom in and out on parts of the city at my command. You need only whisper a type of food from a gigantic menu into a mouthpiece and it appears, hot and steamy, before you in less than a minute. I walk around the room eating goose liver and puffy bread until there's a knock on the door. Effie's calling me to dinner.

Good. I'm starving.

Peeta, Cinna, and Portia are standing out on a balcony that overlooks the Capitol when we enter the dining room. I'm glad to see the stylists, particularly after I hear that Haymitch will be joining us.

A meal with just Effie and Haymitch is bound to be a disaster. Besides, dinner isn't really about food, it's about planning our strategies, and Cinna and Portia have already proven how valuable they are.

A silent young man dressed in a white tunic offers us all stemmed glasses of wine. I think about turning it down, but I've never had wine, except the homemadestuff my mother uses for coughs, and when will I get a chance to try it again? I take a sip of the tart, dry liquid and secretly think it could be improved by a few spoonfuls of honey.

Haymitch shows up just as dinner is being served. It looks as if he's has his own stylist because he's clean and groomed and about as sober as I've ever seen him. He doesn't refuse the offer of wine, but when he starts in on his soup, I realize it's the first time I've ever seen him eat. Maybe he really will pull himself together long enough to help us.

Cinna and Portia seem to have a civilizing effect on Haymitch and Effie. At least they're addressing each other decently. And they both have nothing but praise for our stylists' opening act. While they make small talk, I concentrate on the meal. Mushroom soup, bitter greens with tomatoes the size of peas, rare roast beef sliced as thin as paper, noodles in a green sauce, cheese that melts on your tongue served with sweet blue grapes. The servers, all young people dressed in white tunics like the one who gave us wine, move wordlessly to and from the table, keeping the platters and glasses full.

About halfway through my glass of wine, my head starts feeling foggy, so I change to water instead. I don't like the feeling and hope it wears off soon. How Haymitch can stand walking around like this all the time remains a mystery to me.

I try to focus on the talk, which has turned to our interview costumes, when a girl sets a gorgeous-looking cake on the table and deftly lights it. It blazes up and then the flames flicker around the edges awhile until it finally goes out. I have a moment of doubt.

"What makes it burn? Is it alcohol?" I say, looking up at the girl. "That's the last thing I wa — oh! I know you!"

I can't place a name or time to the girl's face. But I'm certain of it. The dark red hair, the striking features, the porcelain white skin. But even as I utter the words, I feel my insides contracting with anxiety and guilt at the sight of her, and while I can't pull it up, I know some bad memory is associated with her. The expression of terror that crosses her face only adds to my confusion and unease. She shakes her head in denial quickly and hurries away from the table.

When I look back, the four adults are watching me like hawks.

"Don't be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox?" snaps Effie. "The very thought."

"What's an Avox?" I ask innocently.

"Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so she can't speak," Haymitch says, looking at me with warning in his eyes. "She's probably a traitor of some sort. You wouldn't know her."

"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order," says Effie. "And of course, you don't really know her."

But I know I know her. And now that Haymitch has mentioned the word traitor I remember from where. The disapproval is so high I could never admit it. "No, I guess not, I just —" I stammer, and the wine is not helping.

Peeta snaps his fingers as if he just realized something. "Delly Cartwright. That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she looks exactly like Delly."

Delly Cartwright, however, is a pasty-faced, lumpy girl with yellowish hair who looks about as much like our server as a beetle does a butterfly. She may also be the friendliest person on the planet — she smiles constantly at everybody in school, even me. I have never seen the girl with the red hair smile. But I jump on Peeta's suggestion gratefully. "Of course, that's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair," I say.

"Something about the eyes, too," says Peeta.

The energy at the table relaxes. "Oh, well. If that's all it is," says Cinna. "And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut."

We eat the cake and move into a sitting room to watch the replay of the opening ceremonies that's being broadcast. A few of the other couples make a nice impression, but none of them can hold a candle to us. Even our own party lets out an "Ahh!" as they show us coming out of the Remake Center.

"Whose idea was the hand holding?" asks Haymitch.

"Cinna's," says Portia.

"Just the perfect touch of rebellion," says Haymitch. "Very nice."

Rebellion? I have to think about that one a moment. But when I remember the other couples, standing stiffly apart, never touching or acknowledging each other, as if their fellow tribute did not exist, as if the Games had already begun, I know what Haymitch means. Presenting ourselves not as adversaries but as friends has distinguished us as much as the fiery costumes.

"Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me for breakfast and I'll tell you exactly how I want you to play it," says Haymitch to Peeta and I. "Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk."

Peeta and I walk together down the corridor to our rooms. When we get to my door, he leans against the frame, not blocking my entrance exactly but insisting I pay attention to him. "So, Delly Cartwright. Imagine finding her lookalike here."

He's asking for an explanation, and I'm tempted to give him one. We both know he covered for me. If I tell him the truth about the girl, somehow that might even things up. How can it hurt really? Even if he repeated the story, it couldn't do me much harm. It was just something I witnessed. And he lied as much as I did about Delly Cartwright.

I realize I do want to talk to someone about the girl. Someone who might be able to help me figure out her story.

"Maybe later," I tell him, "Good night."

"Good night"


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N Sorry for the longer wait than usual:) Thank you so much for your reviews. It's the only reason I FINALLY wrote this chapter haha, so if you want fast updates, REVIEW!_

**Chapter 6**

My sleep is filled with disturbing dreams. The face of the redheaded Avox mixes with bloody images from earlier Hunger Games, with my mother withdrawn and unreachable, with Prim emaciated and terrified, and with Peeta burning to death. I wake up screaming for my father to run as the mine explodes into a million pieces.

Dawn is breaking through the windows. The Capitol has a misty, haunted air. My head aches and I must have bitten into the side of my cheek in the night because when my tongue probes the ragged flesh, I taste blood.

Slowly, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I punch the buttons on the control board and end up hopping from foot to foot as alternating jets of icy cold and steaming hot water assault me. Then I'm deluged in lemony foam that I have to scrape off with a heavy bristled brush. Oh, well; at least my blood is flowing.

When I'm dried and moisturized with lotion, I find an outfit has been left for me at the front of the closet. Tight black pants, a long-sleeved burgundy tunic, and leather shoes. I put my hair in the single braid down my back. This is the first time since the morning of the reaping that I resemble myself. No fancy hair and clothes, no flaming capes. Just me. Looking like I could be headed for the woods. It calms me.

Haymitch didn't give us an exact time to meet for break-last and no one has contacted me this morning, but I'm hungry so I head down to the dining room, hoping there will be food. I'm not disappointed. While the table is empty, a long board off to the side has been laid with at least twenty dishes. A young man, an Avox, stands at attention by the spread. When I ask if I can serve myself, he nods assent. I load a plate with eggs, sausages, batter cakes covered in thick orange preserves, slices of pale purple melon. As I gorge myself, I watch the sun rise over the Capitol. I have a second plate of hot grain smothered in beef stew. Finally, I fill a plate with rolls and sit at the table, breaking oil bits and dipping them into hot chocolate, the way Peeta did on the train.

My mind wanders to my mother and Prim. They must be up. My mother getting their breakfast of mush. Prim milking her goat before school. Just two mornings ago, I was home. Can that be right? Yes, just two. And now how empty the house feels, even from a distance. What did they say last night about my fiery debut at the Games? Did it give them hope, or simply add to their terror when they saw the reality of twenty-four tributes circled together, knowing only one could live?

Haymitch and Peeta come in, bid me good morning, and fill their plates. I notice that Peeta and I are wearing the exact same outfit.

I'm nervous about the training. There will be three days in which all the tributes practice together. On the last afternoon, we'll each get a chance to perform in private before the Gamemakers. The thought of meeting the other tributes face-to-face makes me queasy. I turn the roll I have just taken from the basket over and over in my hands, but my appetite is gone.

When Haymitch has finished several platters of stew, he pushes back his plate with a sigh. He takes a flask from his pocket and takes a long pull on it and leans his elbows on the table. "So, let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now."

"Why would you coach us separately?" I ask.

"Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," says Haymitch.

I exchange a look with Peeta. "I don't have any secret skills," he says. "And I already know what yours is."

"You can coach us together," I tell Haymitch. Peeta nods.

"All right, so give me some idea of what you can do," says Haymitch.

"I can't do anything," says Peeta. "Unless you count baking bread."

"Sorry, I don't. Katniss. I already know you're handy with a knife," says Haymitch.

"Not really. But I can hunt," I say. "With a bow and arrow."

"And you're good?" asks Haymitch.

I have to think about it. I've been putting food on the table for four years. That's no small task. I'm not as good as my father was, but he'd had more practice. I've better aim than Gale, but I've had more practice. He's a genius with traps and snares. "I'm all right," I say.

"She's excellent," says Peeta. "I've seen. She hits every anima, straight in the eye. She can even bring down deer."

"What about you? You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour," I say, suddenly defensive. "Tell him that. That's not nothing."

"Yes, and I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people. It's not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn't," he shoots back.

"He can wrestle," I tell Haymitch. "He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother."

"People will help you in the arena. They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you." is all he says.

"No more than you," I say.

Peeta rolls his eyes at Haymitch. "She has no idea. The effect she can have on people." he says, running his fingernail along the wood grain in the table, refusing to look at me.

What on earth does he mean? People help me? When we were dying of starvation, no one helped me! No one except Peeta. Once I had something to barter with, things changed. I'm a tough trader. Or am I? What effect do I have? That I'm weak and needy? Is he suggesting that I got good deals because people pitied me? I try to think if this is true. Perhaps some of the merchants were a little generous in their trades, but I always attributed that to their long-standing relationship with my father. Besides, my game is first-class. I don't know why I'm suddenly angry at him. He's probably just trying to help me, being my best friend.

After about a minute of this, Haymitch says, "Well, then. Well, well, well. Katniss, there's no guarantee they'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

"I know a few basic snares," I mutter.

"That may be significant in terms of food," says Haymitch. "And Peeta, she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?" says Haymitch. Peeta and I nod.

"One last thing. In public, I want you by each other's side every minute," says Haymitch, "It's not open for discussion. You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will be amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training."

I wonder if he knows that we were best friends before the reaping. Peeta and I rarely talk when Haymitch is with us, so how would he know?

* * *

It's almost ten. I clean my teeth and smooth back my hair again. Anger temporarily blocked out my nervousness about meeting the other tributes, but now I can feel my anxiety rising again. By the time I meet Effie and Peeta at the elevator, I catch myself biting my nails. I stop at once.

The actual training rooms are below ground level of our building. With these elevators, the ride is less than a minute. The doors open into an enormous gymnasium filled with various weapons and obstacle courses. Although it's not yet ten, we're the last ones to arrive. The other tributes are gathered in a tense circle. They each have a cloth square with their district number on it pinned to their shirts. While someone pins the number 12 on my back, I do a quick assessment. Peeta and I are the only two dressed alike.

As soon as we join the circle, the head trainer, a tall, athletic woman named Atala steps up and begins to explain the training schedule. Experts in each skill will remain at their stations. We will be free to travel from area to area as we choose, per our mentor's instructions. Some of the stations teach survival skills, others fighting techniques. We are forbidden to engage in any combative exercise with another tribute. There are assistants on hand if we want to practice with a partner.

When Atala begins to read down the list of the skill stations, my eyes can't help flitting around to the other tributes. It's the first time we've been assembled, on level ground, in simple clothes. My heart sinks. Almost all of the boys and at least half of the girls are bigger than I am, even though many of the tributes have never been fed properly. You can see it in their bones, their skin, the hollow look in their eyes. I may be smaller naturally, but overall my family's resourcefulness has given me an edge in that area. I stand straight, and while I'm thin, I'm strong. The meat and plants from the woods combined with the exertion it took to get them have given me a healthier body than most of those I see around me.

The exceptions are the kids from the wealthier districts, the volunteers, the ones who have been fed and trained throughout their lives for this moment. The tributes from 1, 2, and 4 traditionally have this look about them. It's technically against the rules to train tributes before they reach the Capitol but it happens every year. In District 12, we call them the Career Tributes, or just the Careers. And like as not, the winner will be one of them.

The slight advantage I held coming into the Training Center, my fiery entrance last night, seems to vanish in the presence of my competition. The other tributes were jealous of us, but not because we were amazing, because our stylists were. Now I see nothing but contempt in the glances of the Career Tributes. Each must have fifty to a hundred pounds on me. They project arrogance and brutality. When Atala releases us, they head straight for the deadliest-looking weapons in the gym and start handling them with ease.

I'm thinking that it's lucky I'm a fast runner when Peeta nudges my arm and I jump. He is still beside me, per Haymitch's instructions. His expression is sober. "Where would you like to start?"

I look around at the Career Tributes who are showing off, clearly trying to intimidate the field. Then at the others, the underfed, the incompetent, shakily having their first lessons with a knife or an ax.

"Suppose we tie some knots," I say.

"Right you are," says Peeta. We cross to an empty station where the trainer seems pleased to have students. You get the feeling that the knot-tying class is not the Hunger games hot spot. When he realizes I know something about snares, he shows us a simple, excellent trap that will leave a human competitor dangling by a leg from a tree. We concentrate on this one skill for an hour until both of us have mastered it.

After that, we notice the Careers at the weight station, throwing them around. Cato catches us looking. "Want to try, 12?" he asks, looking at Peeta. The other Careers, Clove, Glimmer and Marvel turn, staring at us in contempt.

I nudge Peeta forward. "Don't show them you're whole strength," I warn him. He merely nods and walks toward the weights. Picking up the 100 lb one, he walks towards the center and throws it towards the stack row tridents. The whole rack falls with a clang to the floor, alerting the other tributes. The Careers look impressed, but they try not to show it.

Peeta merely smiles and walks up to me. Throwing his arm over my shoulder he steers me towards the other side of the room, with everybody staring at us.

When we're out of sight, I shrug his arm off me. "Why did you throw so much?" I ask. "You weren't supposed to show all your strength." I hiss.

He smiles at me, his blue eyes sparkling. "I _didn't_ use my whole strength." and with that, he gently takes my arm and leads me to the camouflage station.

The person in charge there is impressed, as am I, by Peeta's skills. He can practically make his arm disappear on a tree, in a rock, anywhere.

"How did you learn that?" the man asks eagerly.

"I frost the cakes at home. My family owns a bakery." Peeta explains.

"Maybe frosting will be your last defense in the arena." I say with a small smile.

"Well, they are called the Hunger Games." he says smirking, earning a laugh from both me and the trainer.

So the next three days pass with Peeta and I going quietly from station to station. We do pick up some valuable skills, from starting fires, to knife throwing, to making shelter. Despite Haymitch's order to appear mediocre, Peeta excels in hand-to-hand combat, and I sweep the edible plants test without blinking an eye. We steer clear of archery and weightlifting though, wanting to save those for our private sessions.

The Gamemakers appeared early on the first day. Twenty or so men and women dressed in deep purple robes. They sit in the elevated stands that surround the gymnasium, sometimes wandering about to watch us, jotting down notes, other times eating at the endless banquet that has been set for them, ignoring the lot of us. But they do seem to be keeping their eye on the District 12 tributes. Several times I've looked up to find one fixated on me. They consult with the trainers during our meals as well. We see them all gathered together when we come back.

Breakfast and dinner are served on our floor, but at lunch the twenty-four of us eat in a dining room off the gymnasium. Food is arranged on carts around the room and you serve yourself. The Career Tributes tend to gather rowdily around one table, as if to prove their superiority, that they have no fear of one another and consider the rest of us beneath notice. Most of the other tributes sit alone, like lost sheep. No one says a word to us. Peeta and I eat together, and it's actually not that hard to find stuff to talk about, I've always found that Peeta is easy to talk with. We mostly talk about funny stories from school that genuinely make us laugh. At the end of the first day, Haymitch asks us if we were together the whole day. We tell him yes, and he seems happy. I think he finally understands that Peeta and I are friends.

* * *

On the second day, while we're taking a shot at spear throwing, Peeta whispers to me. "I think we have a shadow."

I throw my spear, which I'm not too bad at actually, if I don't have to throw too far, and see the little girl from District 11 standing back a bit, watching us. She's the twelve-year-old, the one who reminded me so of Prim in stature. Up close she looks about ten. She has bright, dark, eyes and satiny brown skin and stands tilted up on her toes with her arms slightly extended to her sides, as if ready to take wing at the slightest sound. It's impossible not to think of a bird.

I pick up another spear while Peeta throws. "I think her name's Rue," he says softly.

I bite my lip. Rue is a small yellow flower that grows in the Meadow. Rue. Primrose. Neither of them could tip the scale at seventy pounds soaking wet.

"What can we do about it?" I ask him, more harshly than I intended.

"Nothing to do," he says back.

Now that I know she's there, it's hard to ignore the child. She slips up and joins us at different stations. Like me, she's clever with plants, climbs swiftly, and has good aim. She can hit the target every time with a slingshot. But what is a slingshot against a 220-pound male with a sword?

Back on the District 12 floor, Haymitch and Effie grill us throughout breakfast and dinner about every moment of the day. What we did, who watched us, how the other tributes size up. Cinna and Portia aren't around, so there's no one to add any sanity to the meals. Not that Haymitch and Effie are fighting anymore. Instead they seem to be of one mind, determined to whip us into shape. Full of endless directions about what we should do and not do in training. Peeta is more patient, but I become fed up and surly.

When we finally escape to bed on the second night, Peeta mumbles, "Someone ought to get Haymitch a drink."

I make a sound that is somewhere between a snort and a laugh. "Yeah" I say.

On the third day of training, they start to call us out of lunch for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. District by district, first the boy, then the girl tribute. As usual, District 12 is slated to go last. We linger in the dining room, unsure where else to go. No one comes back once they have left. As the room empties, the pressure to appear friendly lightens. By the time they call Rue, we are left alone. We sit in silence until they summon Peeta. He rises.

"Remember to show your strength. And camouflage if you have time." I tell him.

"Okay. You...shoot straight. Good luck." he says.

"Thanks, you too." I say, giving his arm a small squeeze.

He's just about to walk in the room, when I stop him.

"Oh and Peeta?" he turns around. "'May the Odds be ever in your favor." I say, adding a slight accent for good measure.

He laughs. "You too, Kat." he says using and old nickname, which brings a small to my face as well.

After about fifteen minutes, they call my name. I smooth my hair, set my shoulders back, and walk into the gymnasium. Instantly, I know I'm in trouble. They've been here too long, the Gamemakers. Sat through twenty-three other demonstrations. Had too much to wine, most of them. Want more than anything to go home.

There's nothing I can do but continue with the plan. I walk to the archery station. Oh, the weapons! I've been itching to get my hands on them for days! Bows made of wood and plastic and metal and materials I can't even name. Arrows with feathers cut in flawless uniform lines. I choose a bow, string it, and sling the matching quiver of arrows over my shoulder. There's a shooting range, but it's much too limited. Standard bull's-eyes and human silhouettes. I walk to the center of the gymnasium and pick my first target. The dummy used for knife practice. Even as I pull back on the bow I know something is wrong. The string's tighter than the one I use at home. The arrow's more rigid. I miss the dummy by a couple of inches and lose what little attention I had been commanding. For a moment, I'm humiliated, then I head back to the bull's-eye. I shoot again and again until I get the feel of these new weapons.

Back in the center of the gymnasium, I take my initial position and skewer the dummy right through the heart. Then I sever the rope that holds the sandbag for boxing, and the bag splits open as it slams to the ground. Without pausing, I shoulder-roll forward, come up on one knee, and send an arrow into one of the hanging lights high above the gymnasium floor. A shower of sparks bursts from the fixture.

It's excellent shooting. I turn to the Gamemakers. A few are nodding approval, but the majority of them are fixated on a roast pig that has just arrived at their banquet table.

Suddenly I am furious, that with my life on the line, they don't even have the decency to pay attention to me. That I'm being upstaged by a dead pig. My heart starts to pound, I can feel my face burning. Without thinking, I pull an arrow from my quiver and send it straight at the Gamemakers' table. I hear shouts of alarm as people stumble back. The arrow skewers the apple in the pig's mouth and pins it to the wall behind it. Everyone stares at me in disbelief.

"Thank you for your consideration," I say. Then I give a slight bow and walk straight toward the exit, effectively dismissing myself.

_A/N thanks for reading, I'd love to know your thoughts. Also if you would like other people's POV just tell me in a review. Thanks!_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N Thanks for your support I really appreciate it! But PLEASE leave your thoughts and criticisms in that little box at the bottom of the page, that's the reason I write:) Enjoy!_

**Chapter 7**

_It's an unusually sunny day in District 12 when I wake up. I walk into the kitchen to find it empty. I'm walking towards the stale bread that's on the counter, when a pair of thin arms wrap themselves around my waist._

_"Happy Birthday Katniss!" Prim says, beaming at me. I'd almost forgotten; today I turn 12. Most people here don't have time for birthdays, and my family is no exception._

_"Thanks, little duck." I say, smiling down at her when I notice that she has one hand behind her back._

_"I have a present for you." she says excitedly._

_"Oh?" I can't even imagine what she could have procured for my birthday._

_She pulls her hand from behind her and opens it. Lying in her pale palm is a old, silk forest green ribbon. It's slightly tattered at the edges, but it still hasn't lost it's bright shine. Prim's looking at me, a hopeful glintin her blond hair._

_"I know green's your favorite color, and it would look so pretty at the end of your braid." she explains._

_I smile down at her, genuinely grateful for the ribbon. "Thank you Prim," I hug her. "It's beautiful. Would you like to tie it on my braid?" _

_"Yes!" she says almost bouncing with excitement as I bend down so she can reach my braid._

_She's just finishing when a door opens behind us. I turn around in surprise to see my mother, still in her nightgown, standing in the doorway. Her blond hair is loose and dirty, faces he looks slightly dazed._

_"Good Morning Mamma!" Prim runs to greet her. Mother barely returns the hug, and when Prim pulls away, my sister asks her. "Don't you know what today is, Mamma?" she asks as if it's the most obvious thing in the world._

_"No" is all Mother says._

_"It's Katniss' birthday!" Prim exclames impatiently._

_"Oh" Mother says. "Happy Birthday"_

_"Do you want some toast?" I ask._

_"No," she replies, "I think I'll just go back to bed." And she leaves the room._

_I put some cheese on the bread for Prim, garb an apple for myself and we leave for school._

* * *

_I'm sitting alone at lunch when Madge walks up. _

_"Hey Katniss," she doesn't know it's my birthday._

_"Hey" I say and she sits down as I continue to eat in silence, when suddenly Peeta walks up._

_ I haven't talked to him since I took him to the woods last week, and I still haven't forgiven myself for breaking down in front of him; I don't want to appear weak._

_"Hi" he says shyly, with his hands behind his back_

_"Hi" I reply._

_All of a sudden he hands me a little bouqet of dandelions that are tied together by a small piece of twine. "Happy Birthday" he says, smiling at me ._

_"Um, thanks. How did you know?" I ask, bewildered._

_"Oh," he says with a slight twinkle in his blue eyes, "a little bird–or more likely flower–told me."_

_Prim. _Of course.

_"It's a token of our friendship. That is, if we can be friends." he continues hurriedly._

_I smile at him, and this time it's a full smile. "Yes, we can be friends." _

_At that, his boyish features light up and with undisguised elation, he says goodbye, and returns to his table._

_(End Flashback)_

* * *

Knock knock.

Im startled by a rapping at my door. I walk towards it and open it to find Peeta on the other side.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," I say, with a small smile.

"Can I come in? We haven't talked in a while." he says.

"Yeah, you're right, we haven't. Come in." I say, gesturing towards the couch, and soon we are both settled on it.

We sit there silently for a few minutes before he speaks.

"Gale came to see, you know, after the reaping." He looks at me with an emotion I can't discern. Nervousness? Sorrow? I can't tell.

"Oh?" I say, surprised. I never even knew that they were acquainted.

"Yeah" he says.

"What did he say?" I press.

"He told me to keep you safe." he says quietly.

For some reason this gets me mad.

"I don't need anyone to protect me. And he has no right telling you that." I hiss.

"Katniss," Peeta says in alarm. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean to make you angry."

"It's not your fault, Gale should know wela enough that I can keep myself safe without any help." I say, "Don't listen to him."

For some reason the last part draws from him a wistful, sad smile. "Oh Katniss, surely you know me well enough to know that I didn't need him to tell me that at all. I've planned to keep you safe from the moment Prim's name was drawn."

And before I can say anything, he says goodnight and leaves the room.

* * *

I don't even want to know what Effie will be teaching me that could take four hours, but she's got me working down to the last minute. We go to my rooms and she puts me in a full-length gown and high-heeled shoes, not the ones I'll he wearing for the actual interview, and instructs me on walking. The shoes are the worst part. I've never worn high heels and can't get used to essentially wobbling around on the balls of my feet. But Effie runs around in them full-time, and I'm determined that if she can do it, so can I. The dress poses another problem. It keeps tangling around my shoes so, of course, I hitch it up, and then Effie swoops down on me like a hawk, smacking my hands and yelling, "Not above the ankle!" When I finally conquer walking, there's still sitting, posture — apparently I have a tendency to duck my head — eye contact, hand gestures, and smiling. Smiling is mostly about smiling more. Effie makes me say a hundred banal phrases starting with a smile, while smiling, or ending with a smile. By lunch, the muscles in my cheeks are twitching from overuse.

"Well, that's the best I can do," Effie says with a sigh. "Just remember, Katniss, you want the audience to like you."

"And you don't think they will?" I ask.

"Not if you glare at them the entire time. Why don't you save that for the arena? Instead, think of yourself among friends," says Effie.

"They're betting on how long I'll live!" I burst out. "They're not my friends!"

"Well, try and pretend!" snaps Effie. Then she composes herself and beams at me. "See, like this. I'm smiling at you even though you're aggravating me."

"Yes, it feels very convincing," I say. "I'm going to eat." 1 kick off my heels and stomp down to the dining room, hiking my skirt up to my thighs.

Peeta and Haymitch seem in pretty good moods, so I'm thinking the content session should be an improvement over the morning. I couldn't be more wrong. After lunch, Haymitch takes me into the sitting room, directs me to the couch, and then just frowns at me for a while.

"What?" I finally ask.

"I'm trying to figure out what to do with you," he says. "How we're going to present you. Are you going to be charming? Aloof? Fierce? So far, you're shining like a star. You volunteered to save your sister. Cinna made you look unforgettable. You've got the top training score. People are intrigued, but no one knows who you are. The impression you make tomorrow will decide exactly what I can get you in terms of sponsors," says Haymitch.

Having watched the tribute interviews all my life, I know there's truth to what he's saying. If you appeal to the crowd, either by being humorous or brutal or eccentric, you gain favor.

"What's Peeta's approach?" I say.

"Likable. He has a sort of self-deprecating humor naturally," says Haymitch. "Whereas when you open your mouth, you come across more as sullen and hostile."

"I do not!" I say.

"Please. I don't know where you pulled that cheery, wavy girl on the chariot from, but I haven't seen her before or since," says Haymitch.

"And you've given me so many reasons to be cheery," I counter.

"But you don't have to please me. I'm not going to sponsor you. So pretend I'm the audience," says Haymitch. "Delight me."

"Fine!" I snarl. Haymitch takes the role of the interviewer and I try to answer his questions in a winning fashion. But I can't. I'm too angry with Haymitch for what he said and that I even have to answer the questions. All I can think is how unjust the whole thing is, the Hunger Games. Why am I hopping around like some trained dog trying to please people I hate? The longer the interview goes on, the more my fury seems to rise to the surface, until I'm literally spitting out answers at him.

"All right, enough," he says. "We've got to find another angle. Not only are you hostile, I don't know anything about you. I've asked you fifty questions and still have no sense of your life, your family, what you care about. They want to know about you, Katniss."

"But I don't want them to! They're already taking my future! They can't have the things that mattered to me in the past!" I say.

"Then lie! Make something up!" says Haymitch.

"I'm not good at lying," I say.

"Well, you better learn fast. You've got about as much charm as a dead slug," says Haymitch.

Ouch. That hurts. Even Haymitch must know he's been too harsh because his voice softens. "Here's an idea. Try acting humble."

"Humble," I echo.

"That you can't believe a little girl from District Twelve has done this well. The whole thing's been more than you ever could have dreamed of. Talk about Cinna's clothes. How nice the people are. How the city amazes you. If you won't talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right. Gush."

The next hours are agonizing. At once, it's clear I cannot gush. We try me playing cocky, but I just don't have the arrogance. Apparently, I'm too "vulnerable" for ferocity. I'm not witty. Funny. Sexy. Or even mysterious.

By the end of the session, I am no one at all. Haymitch started drinking somewhere around witty, and a nasty edge has crept into his voice. "I give up, sweetheart. Just answer the questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you despise them."

I have dinner that night in my room, ordering an outrageous number of delicacies, eating myself sick, and then taking out my anger at Haymitch, at the Hunger Games, at every living being in the Capitol by smashing dishes around my room. When the girl with the red hair comes in to turn down my bed, her eyes widen at the mess. "Just leave it!" I yell at her. "Just leave it alone!"

I hate her, too, with her knowing reproachful eyes that call me a coward, a monster, a puppet of the Capitol, both now and then. For her, justice must finally be happening. At least my death will help pay for the life of the boy in the woods.

But instead of fleeing the room, the girl closes the door behind her and goes to the bathroom. She comes back with a damp cloth and wipes my face gently then cleans the blood from a broken plate off my hands. Why is she doing this? Why am I letting her?

"I should have tried to save you," I whisper.

She shakes her head. Does this mean we were right to stand by? That she has forgiven me?

"No, it was wrong," I say.

She taps her lips with her fingers then points to my chest. I think she means that I would just have ended up an Avox, too. Probably would have. An Avox or dead.

* * *

In the morning, it's not the girl but my prep team who are hanging over me. My lessons with Effie and Haymitch are over. This day belongs to Cinna. He's my last hope. Maybe he can make me look so wonderful, no one will care what comes out of my mouth.

The team works on me until late afternoon, turning my skin to glowing satin, stenciling patterns on my arms, painting flame designs on my twenty perfect nails. Then Venia goes to work on my hair, weaving strands of red into a pattern that begins at my left ear, wraps around my head, and then falls in one braid down my right shoulder. They erase my face with a layer of pale makeup and draw my features back out. Huge dark eyes, full red lips, lashes that throw off bits of light when I blink. Finally, they cover my entire body in a powder that makes me shimmer in gold dust.

Then Cinna enters with what I assume is my dress, but I can't really see it because it's covered. "Close your eyes," he orders.

I can feel the silken inside as they slip it down over my naked body, then the weight. It must be forty pounds. I clutch Octavia's hand as I blindly step into my shoes, glad to find they are at least two inches lower than the pair Effie had me practice in. There's some adjusting. Then silence.

"Can I open my eyes?" I ask impatiently.

"Yes," says Cinna. "Open them."

The creature standing before me in the full-length mirror has come from another world. Where skin shimmers and eyes flash and apparently they make their clothes from jewels. Because my dress, oh, my dress is entirely covered in reflective precious gems, red and yellow and white with bits of blue that accent the tips of the flame design. The slightest movement gives the impression I am engulfed in tongues of fire.

I am not pretty. I am not beautiful. I am as radiant as the sun.

For a while, we all just stare at me. "Oh, Cinna," I finally whisper. "Thank you."

"Twirl for me," he says. I hold out my arms and spin in a circle. The prep team screams in admiration.

Cinna dismisses the team and has me move around in the dress and shoes, which are infinitely more manageable than Effie's. The dress hangs in such a way that I don't have to lift the skirt when I walk, leaving me with one less thing to worry about.

"So, all ready for the interview then?" asks Cinna. I can see by his expression that he's been talking to Haymitch. That he knows how dreadful I am.

"I'm awful. Haymitch called me a dead slug. No matter what we tried, I couldn't do it. I just can't be one of those people he wants me to be," I say.

Cinna thinks about this a moment. "Why don't you just be yourself?"

"Myself? That's no good, either. Haymitch says I'm sullen and hostile," I say.

"Well, you are. around Haymitch," says Cinna with a grin. "I don't find you so. The prep team adores you. You even won over the Gamemakers. And as for the citizens of the Capitol, well, they can't stop talking about you. No one can help but admire your spirit."

My spirit. This is a new thought. I'm not sure exactly what it means, but it suggests I'm a fighter. In a sort of brave way. It's not as if I'm never friendly. Okay, maybe I don't go around loving everybody I meet, maybe my smiles are hard to come by, but I do care for some people.

Cinna takes my icy hands in his warm ones. "Suppose, when you answer the questions, you think you're addressing a friend back home. Who would your best friend be?" asks Cinna.

"Peeta," I say instantly. "Only it doesn't make sense, Cinna. I would never be telling Peeta those things about me. He already knows them."

He looks mildly surprised that I just said that my best friend was the person with whom I would be sent into the arena to kill. I guess I forgot to tell him.

"What about me? Could you think of me as a friend?" asks Cinna.

Of all the people I've met since I left home, Cinna is by far my favorite. I liked him right off and he hasn't disappointed me yet. "I think so, but - "

"I'll be sitting on the main platform with the other stylists. You'll be able to look right at me. When you're asked a question, find me, and answer it as honestly as possible, since you wont be able to see Peeta." says Cinna.

"Even if what I think is horrible?" I ask. Because it might be, really.

"Especially if what you think is horrible," says Cinna. "You'll try it?"

I nod. It's a plan. Or at least a straw to grasp at.

Too soon it's time to go. The interviews take place on a stage constructed in front of the Training Center. Once I leave my room, it will be only minutes until I'm in front of the crowd, the cameras, all of Panem.

As Cinna turns the doorknob, I stop his hand. "Cinna. " I'm completely overcome with stage fright.

"Remember, they already love you," he says gently. "Just be yourself."

We meet up with the rest of the District 12 crowd at the elevator. Portia and her gang have been hard at work. Peeta looks stunning in a black suit with flame accents. And we smile nervously at each other. While we look well together, it's a relief not to be dressed identically. Haymitch and Effie are all fancied up for the occasion. I avoid Haymitch, but accept Effie's compliments. Effie can be tiresome and clueless, but she's not destructive like Haymitch.

When the elevator opens, the other tributes are being lined up to take the stage. All twenty-four of us sit in a big arc throughout the interviews. I'll be last, or second to last since the girl tribute precedes the boy from each district. How I wish I could be first and get the whole thing out of the way! Now I'll have to listen to how witty, funny, humble, fierce, and charming everybody else is before I go up. Plus, the audience will start to get bored, just as the Gamemakers did. And I can't exactly shoot an arrow into the crowd to get their attention.

Just stepping on the stage makes my breathing rapid and shallow. I can feel my pulse pounding in my temples. It's a relief to get to my chair, because between the heels and my legs shaking, I'm afraid I'll trip. Although evening is falling, the City Circle is brighter than a summer's day. An elevated seating unit has been set up for prestigious guests, with the stylists commanding the front row. The cameras will turn to them when the crowd is reacting to their handiwork. A large balcony off a building to the right has been reserved for the Gamemakers. Television crews have claimed most of the other balconies. But the City Circle and the avenues that feed into it are completely packed with people. Standing room only. At homes and community halls around the country, every television set is turned on. Every citizen of Panem is tuned in. There will be no blackouts tonight.

Caesar Flickerman, the man who has hosted the interviews for more than forty years, bounces onto the stage. It's a little scary because his appearance has been virtually unchanged during all that time. Same face under a coating of pure white makeup. Same hairstyle that he dyes a different color for each Hunger Games. Same ceremonial suit, midnight blue dotted with a thousand tiny electric bulbs that twinkle like stars. They do surgery in the Capitol, to make people appear younger and thinner. In District 12, looking old is something of an achievement since so many people die early. You see an elderly person you want to congratulate them on their longevity, ask the secret of survival. A plump person is envied because they aren't scraping by like the majority of us. But here it is different. Wrinkles aren't desirable. A round belly isn't a sign of success.

This year, Caesar's hair is powder blue and his eyelids and lips are coated in the same hue. He looks freakish but less frightening than he did last year when his color was crimson and he seemed to be bleeding. Caesar tells a few jokes to warm up the audience but then gets down to business.

The girl tribute from District 1, looking provocative in a see-through gold gown, steps up the center of the stage to join Caesar for her interview. You can tell her mentor didn't have any trouble coming up with an angle for her. With that flowing blonde hair, emerald green eyes, her body tall and lush. she's sexy all the way.

Each interview only lasts three minutes. Then a buzzer goes off and the next tribute is up. I'll say this for Caesar, he really does his best to make the tributes shine. He's friendly, tries to set the nervous ones at ease, laughs at lame jokes, and can turn a weak response into a memorable one by the way he reacts.

I sit like a lady, the way Effie showed me, as the districts slip by. 2, 3, 4. Everyone seems to be playing up some angle. The monstrous boy from District 2 is a ruthless killing machine. The fox-faced girl from District 5 sly and elusive. I spotted Cinna as soon as he took his place, but even his presence cannot relax me. 8, 9, 10. The crippled boy from 10 is very quiet. My palms are sweating like crazy, but the jeweled dress isn't absorbent and they skid right of if I try to dry them. 11.

Rue, who is dressed in a gossamer gown complete with wings, flutters her way to Caesar. A hush falls over the crowd at the sight of this magical wisp of a tribute. Caesar's very sweet with her, complimenting her seven in training, an excellent score for one so small. When he asks her what her greatest strength in the arena will be, she doesn't hesitate. "I'm very hard to catch," she says in a tremulous voice. "And if they can't catch me, they can't kill me. So don't count me out."

"I wouldn't in a million years," says Caesar genially.

The boy tribute from District 11, Thresh, has the same dark skin as Rue, but the resemblance stops there. He's one of the giants, probably six and a half feet tall and built like an ox, but I noticed he rejected the invitations from the Career Tributes to join their crowd. Instead he's been very solitary, speaking to no one, showing little interest in training. Even so, he scored a ten and it's not hard to imagine he impressed the Gamemakers. He ignores Caesar's attempts at banter and answers with a yes or no or just remains silent.

If only I was his size, I could get away with sullen and hostile and it would be just fine! I bet half the sponsors are at least considering him. If I had any money, I'd bet on him myself.

And then they're calling Katniss Everdeen, and I feel myself, as if in a dream, standing and making my way center stage, but before I leave, Peeta wishes me a good luck, which I return.

I shake Caesar's outstretched hand, and he has the good grace not to immediately wipe his off on his suit.

"So, Katniss, the Capitol must be quite a change from District Twelve. What's impressed you most since you arrived here?" asks Caesar.

What? What did he say? It's as if the words make no sense.

My mouth has gone as dry as sawdust. I desperately find Cinna in the crowd and lock eyes with him. I imagine the words coming from his lips. "What's impressed you most since you arrived here?" I rack my brain for something that made me happy here. Be honest, I think. Be honest.

"The lamb stew," I barely manage to get out.

Caesar laughs, and vaguely I realize some of the audience has joined in.

"The one with the dried plums?" asks Caesar. I nod. "Oh, I eat it by the bucketful." He turns sideways to the audience in horror, hand on his stomach. "It doesn't show, does it?" They shout reassurances to him and applaud. This is what I mean about Caesar. He tries to help you out.

"Now, Katniss," he says confidentially, "When you came out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped. What did you think of that costume?"

Cinna raises one eyebrow at me. Be honest. "You mean after I got over my fear of being burned alive?" I ask honestly.

There's a big laugh. A real one from the audience.

"Yes. Start then," says Caesar.

Cinna, my friend, I should tell him anyway. "I thought Cinna was brilliant and it was the most gorgeous costume I'd ever seen and I couldn't believe I was wearing it. I can't believe I'm wearing this, either." I lift up my skirt to spread it out. "I mean, look at it!"

As the audience oohs and ahs, I see Cinna make the tiniest circular motion with his finger. But I know what he's saying. Twirl for me.

I spin in a circle once and the reaction is immediate.

"Oh, do that again!" says Caesar, and so I lift up my arms and spin around and around letting the skirt fly out, letting the dress engulf me in flames. The audience breaks into cheers. When I stop, I clutch Caesar's arm.

"Don't stop!" he says.

"I have to, I'm dizzy!" I'm also giggling, which I think I've done maybe never in my lifetime. But the nerves and the spinning have gotten to me.

Caesar wraps a protective arm around me. "Don't worry, I've got you. Can't have you following in your mentor's footsteps."

Everyone's hooting as the cameras find Haymitch, who is by now famous for his head dive at the reaping, and he waves them away good-naturedly and points back to me.

"It's all right," Caesar reassures the crowd. "She's safe with me. So, how about that training score. E-le-ven. Give us a hint what happened in there."

I glance at the Gamemakers on the balcony and bite my lip. "Um. all I can say, is I think it was a first."

The cameras are right on the Gamemakers, who are chuckling and nodding.

"You're killing us," says Caesar as if in actual pain. "Details. Details."

I address the balcony. "I'm not supposed to talk about it, right?"

The Gamemaker who fell in the punch bowl shouts out, "She's not!"

"Thank you," I say. "Sorry. My lips are sealed."

He laughs. "Tell me Katniss, I've heard reports that you and your fellow tribute were pretty cosy during training. Did you two know each other before the reaping?"

"Yes," I reply, smiling. "In fact, he's my best friend."

This draws a smattering of applause from the audience and an "oh" from Caesar.

"And may I be right in assuming that you would want him toafter if you don't?"

"Yes, there's nobody who deserves it more." I answer him honestly.

"Well, it's quite a tragedy that you got reaped the same year. My condolences." he says, before changing the subject.

"Let's go back then, to the moment they called your sister's name at the reaping," says Caesar. His mood is quieter now. "And you volunteered. Can you tell us about her?"

No. No, not all of you. But maybe Cinna. I don't think I'm imagining the sadness on his face. "Her name's Prim. She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything."

You could hear a pin drop in the City Circle now.

"What did she say to you? After the reaping?" Caesar asks.

Be honest. Be honest. I swallow hard. "She asked me to try really hard to win." The audience is frozen, hanging on my every word.

"And what did you say?" prompts Caesar gently.

But instead of warmth, I feel an icy rigidity take over my body. My muscles tense as they do before a kill. When I speak, my voice seems to have dropped an octave. "I swore I would."

"I bet you did," says Caesar, giving me a squeeze. The buzzer goes off. "Sorry we're out of time. Best of luck, Katniss Everdeen, tribute from District Twelve."

The applause continues long after I'm seated. I look to Cinna for reassurance. He gives me a subtle thumbs-up.

I'm still in a daze for the first part of Peeta's interview. He has the audience from the get-go, though; I can hear them laughing, shouting out. He plays up the baker's son thing, comparing the tributes to the breads from their districts. Then has a funny anecdote about the perils of the Capitol showers. "Tell me, do I still smell like roses?" he asks Caesar, and then there's a whole run where they take turns sniffing each other that brings down the house. I'm coming back into focus when Caesar asks him about his relationship with me.

"Well, Ceasar, all I can say is that I'd die for her." Peeta says earnestly.

"Oh well," Caesar exclaims. "as far as friendship goes, that's pretty dedicated. Do you perhaps feel any deeper feelings for Katniss?"

I freeze.

"Well Caesar, I'm not sure I can tell you that." Peeta teases.

"Oh come on, you've got nothing to lose!" Caesar says, and the audience egg him on.

"Well, honestly, Yes I do have deeper feelings for her. In fact, I'm in love with her." Peeta says, blushing.

I can't believe he just said that. I vaguely hear Caesar telling him that it's not abrad choice and the buzzer going off but all I can focus on is what he just said. It's bad enough that he said it. But to the whole country nonetheless!

The moment he enters the backstage where I'm currently pacing, I grab his arm and force him against the wall.

"What the hell Peeta? What was that? I thought we were best friends! Don't you usually tell that to me first before proclaiming it to the whole country?" I yell.

Before he can respond Haymitch hauls me off him.

"I did it to protect you!" he yells right back.

"You made me look weak! And I don't need you to protect me!" I protest when HaymitcI steps in.

"He made you look desireable," our mentor says. "Which in your case, sweetheart, can't hurt." the argument is interrupted when Cinna and Portia come in, and before long, they've led us to our separate rooms.


	8. Chapter 8

_Happy Sunday, dear Readers! I'm sorry this took me longer than usual... It's a little shorter too more reviews equal longer chapters! Also please tell me if you want different POVs. I'm more than happy to do that:) Thank you so much for all of your support:) Enjoy!_

**Chapter 8**

After dinner, we watch the replay in the sitting room. I seem frilly and shallow, twirling and giggling in my dress, although the others tell me that I am charming. Peeta actually _is_ charming and then utterly winning as the boy in love. And there I am, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Cinna's hands, desirable by Peeta's confession, tragic by circumstance, and by all accounts, unforgettable.

When the anthem finishes and the screen goes dark, a hush falls on the room. Tomorrow at dawn, we will be roused and prepared for the arena. The actual Games don't start until ten because so many of the Capitol residents rise late. But Peeta and I must make an early start. There is no telling how far we will travel to the arena that has been prepared for this year's Games.

I know Haymitch and Effie will not be going with us. As soon as they leave here, they'll be at the Games Headquarters, hopefully madly signing up our sponsors, working out a strategy on how and when to deliver the gifts to us. Cinna and Portia will travel with us to the very spot from which we will be launched into the arena. Still final good-byes must be said here.

Effie takes both of us by the hand and, with actual tears in her eyes, wishes us well. Thanks us for being the best tributes it has ever been her privilege to sponsor. And then, because it's Effie and she's apparently required by law to say something awful, she adds "I wouldn't be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!"

Then she kisses us each on the cheek and hurries out, overcome with either the emotional parting or the possible improvement of her fortunes.

Haymitch crosses his arms and looks us both over.

"Any final words of advice?" asks Peeta.

"When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. You're neither of you up to the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water," he says. "Got it?"

"And after that?" I ask.

"Stay alive," says Haymitch. It's the same advice he gave us on the train, but he's not drunk and laughing this time. And we only nod. What else is there to say?

When I head to my room, Peeta lingers to talk to Portia. I'm glad. Whatever strange words of parting we exchange can wait until tomorrow. My covers are drawn back, but there is no sign of the redheaded Avox girl. I wish I knew her name. I should have asked it. She could write it down maybe. Or act it out. But perhaps that would only result in punishment for her.

I take a shower and scrub the gold paint, the makeup, the scent of beauty from my body. All that remains of the design-team's efforts are the flames on my nails. I decide to keep them as reminder of who I am to the audience. Katniss, the girl who was on fire. Perhaps it will give me something to hold on to in the days to come.

I pull on a thick, fleecy nightgown and climb into bed. It takes me about five seconds to realize I'll never fall asleep. And I need sleep desperately because in the arena every moment I give in to fatigue will be an invitation to death.

It's no good. One hour, two, three pass, and my eyelids refuse to close. I can't stop trying to imagine exactly what terrain I'll be thrown into. Desert? Swamp? A frigid wasteland? Above all I am hoping for trees, which may afford me some means of concealment and food and shelter, Often there are trees because barren landscapes are dull and the Games resolve too quickly without them. But what will the climate be like? What traps have the Gamemakers hid den to liven up the slower moments? And then there are my fellow tributes.

The more anxious I am to find sleep, the more it eludes me. Finally, I am too restless to even stay in bed. I pace the floor, heart beating too fast, breathing too short. My room feels like a prison cell. If I don't get air soon, I'm going to start to throw things again. I run down the hall to the door to the roof. It's not only unlocked but ajar. Perhaps someone forgot to close it, but it doesn't matter. The energy field enclosing the roof prevents any desperate form of escape. And I'm not looking to escape, only to fill my lungs with air. I want to see the sky and the moon on the last night that no one will be hunting me.

The roof is not lit at night, but as soon as my bare feel reach its tiled surface I see his silhouette, black against the lights that shine endlessly in the Capitol. There's quite a commotion going on down in the streets, music and singing and car horns, none of which I could hear through the thick glass window panels in my room. I could slip away now, without him noticing me; he wouldn't hear me over the din, But the night air's so sweet, I can't bear returning to that stuffy cage of a room.

Suddenly he turns towards me. "Couldn't sleep?" he asks.

"No, could you?" I ask, hesitantly stepping towards him.

"No." he says as I sit across from him, back against the pillar. We sit there in silence for a few minutes until I speak.

"About tonight-" I begin, but he interrupts me.

"I think it would be better if we didn't talk about it." He says, and I can't help but agree.

More silence.

"Remember when we were together, there was never a silence? We always had something to talk about it." He says suddenly.

"Well," I say, "we were never in the Hunger Games before."

"Yeah, I guess." He agrees.

"I'm not going to let them change me, you know. I'm not going to turn into a monster that they've created." Peeta says, looking at me seriously.

"You mean, you're not going to kill anyone?" I say slowly.

"Well, I'm sure when the time comes I'll kill _someone, _but I'm not gong to just kill whenever I can." Here he stops a second before continuing, "Haymitch told me about a few victors, after the games. The Capitol manipulates them; takes control of their lives."

For some reason this makes me mad. "Well, I didn't exactly think that after you win, you go back home and you live happily ever after." I say irritably.

"I never said you did. I was simply remarking." He says soothingly, and much to my own annoyance, I readily calm down.

"Do you think that you might win?" I ask all of a sudden.

"No" is all he says.

After another silence, we both stand up, facing each other. He hugs me.

"I'll see you tomorrow. Good luck."

I nod, wordlessly, and watch him as he walks away.

* * *

"...49-48-47-46-45-44..."

I hear Claudius Templesmith's voice as I scan my surroundings.

I'm standing in a clearing, surrounded by a forest; the sun is directly on me so I have to shield my eyes. Straight ahead, behind some tributes, is the cornucopia, the metal reflecting the sun. In front of it is a variety of backpacks and weapons. My eyes find the arrows, and I almost smile. I turn my head slightly to the right to see Peeta looking at me. When I glance back at the arrows then at him, he shakes his head. I can hear Haymitch's voice telling me to run from the Cornucopia and not engage with the blood-bath, but the arrows look so tempting.

"...16-15-14-13-12-11-10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1."

The minute the gong goes off, I'm running towards the cornucopia. On both sides of me, I see and hear tributes being killed. In front of me, the boy from 11 is throttling some boy. Peeta is nowhere in sight. When I run over to where the bow was, it's gone. I hear a sound behind me and I see Cato killing the crippled boy from 3. In a flash I've grabbed a knapsack and am running as fast as I can towards the trees. I hear a woosh and put the bag behind my head. The knapsack jolts and I turn around to see Clove staring at me, hand still suspended from throwing the knife. I run.

_Let the Hunger Games begin._


End file.
